


Benvenuto

by chromochaotic



Series: Benvenuti [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Insecurity, Italy, JeanMarco Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromochaotic/pseuds/chromochaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean takes a life-affirming trip to Italy at Connie's insistence, and amid all the sunflowers and bell towers, finds something to treasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! First of all, the concept for this is completely thanks to tumblr user xshierux, who is graciously letting me write this adorable comic they drew as a fic. ( http://jeanmacro.tumblr.com/post/58563324574/xshierux-a-reincarnation-au-jean-travels )
> 
> This was done for the first JeanMarco Week's first prompt, "insecurity." ...Granted, the prompt comes up rather briefly. Woops. Ahaha. Still, I hope you enjoy!

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's cute,_ Jean almost wailed aloud. This was the only thought he could process as he stared into the most gorgeous set of bewildered brown eyes he'd ever seen.

* * *

 

It had all started a few months ago, back in the States. He'd been hanging with Connie at his friend's apartment, basically being deadbeats together as the semester wound down and they had nothing to do.

“I just feel like... I've gotta get away from here,” Jean murmured as he stared up at the ceiling from his place sprawled out on the floor. “At least for a few months, or something; I need to get out of this town.” 

Connie chuckled, though the sound was muffled by the pillow he currently had his face stuffed into. He followed up with a short statement, but Jean couldn't understand it. 

“Sorry, dude, what did you just say?”

“I said,” Connie began proudly after removing his face from the pillow, “I just had an _awesome_ idea!”

Jean looked at him skeptically. For Connie, “awesome” usually meant “crazy.”

“No, really man!” Connie scooted toward Jean. “You should go to Italy this summer.”

“Um... What?”

Connie sighed. “I mean, you should come with me and Sasha and all the other students studying abroad there this summer. You know our university has a really established program there, yeah? So you'd already know some people, but it would also be a good break from being here. Am I right?”

Jean's expression had slowly morphed from doubt to consideration. (Well, doubtful consideration, but it was something, regardless.) His family _did_ have the money and the lack-of-involvement-in-his-life to make it possible. 

“Come on, man.” Connie sat up fully and stared his friend down. “I know you probably think it's a crazy idea, but my gut says you could use a little crazy.”

* * *

 

And lo and behold, here he was, walking away from his hostel on the cobblestone streets of Cortona. The hilltop town was almost frustratingly picturesque. Jean kind of wanted to punch each rustic, stony facade; yell at each graceful swallow darting about in the dusky sky; and he'd dropkick the absolutely ridiculous, breathtaking view of the Tuscan countryside, because it was all just _too beautiful_.

It didn't help when he reached the town's main street, Via Nazionale. Everywhere Jean looked, there were older citizens chatting amiably outside cozy cafes, small children laughing and playing football, even a few tourists picking out gifts of fine leather and jewelry with their families. Observing all the camaraderie, Jean's own mood soured. _This fucking village is only interested in talking to itself._

Sighing, he turned down a side street and lamented the fact that Connie and the rest of the university students wouldn't be arriving until tomorrow. Even though Jean had literally left the country to strike out on his own and try to find... himself ( _damn that sounds cheesy_ ), he still wanted someone to share it wi—

“Oof!”

_Fuck_. Jean stumbled back, having walked right into some unsuspecting victim while he was lost in his mind. He almost started to panic, as he saw bright red spill onto the street in his peripheral vision, but upon closer inspection the red turned out to be...

_...tomatoes?_

Jean crouched down to double check, and his eyes landed on an upturned crate next to the scattered produce.

“Ah!” Tan hands righted the crate, and then began placing the tomatoes inside it. Jean finally connected the dots and gathered that he was the cause of the spillage.

“I-I'm sorry!” he said unhappily, forgetting that whomever he had run into might not speak English. “I didn't see where I was going. Here, let me help...”

Jean plucked up a tomato near his feet, then approached the other figure—a young man, Jean guessed, though he was turned away and Jean couldn't properly see his face.

“Here.” Body turned away in embarrassment, Jean held the tomato out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy pivot to face him. “G-grazie...” spoke a soft, gentle voice. Jean's brows furrowed at the foreign word, and he faced toward the stranger just as the other's fingers brushed his while accepting the tomato.

Everything froze. “Ah,” they both said at once. Each stared, bewildered, into the other's eyes, surroundings seemingly forgotten.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's cute._

The other boy glanced away, and Jean felt the need to see his warm, brown eyes again much more sharply than his urge to wail at already making an ass of himself.

Despite his matching flustered blush, the boy appeared to have gathered his thoughts and sought Jean's gaze again. “You are... American?” he queried.

Jean's eyes widened as a new wave of thoughts hit him all at once, most of them involving surprise at this boy's use of English, at his earnest expression, and at how _absolutely fucking adorable_ his slight accent was. Jean took a good minute to push the thoughts away, working his mouth futilely until he at last stammered out, “Yeah, yes, uh. Si.”

The boy smiled at Jean's obvious nerves, and Jean swore his face heated up like the sun. The smile slipped away, though, and the boy continued in a nervous rush, “I-I'm very sorry, you do not need to help with picking up the tomatoes.”

“What?” Jean frowned. “No, god, hey, it was all my fault anyway! H-here, let's—let's finish getting the rest of these.” With that, Jean spun around and headed towards the farther edges of the spilled tomatoes. He couldn't look at those kind, warm eyes for a second longer; for some reason he was completely unhinged by those eyes and those freckled cheeks and the soft, straight brown hair and that gentle voice and _that smile—_

_What's going on?_ Jean thought in a panic, still gathering food into his arms. _I'm usually an idiot around hot people, but not_ this much _of one!_ What Jean meant was that, even though he definitely didn't keep his cool around people he found attractive, he usually retained some of his confidence and was able to pull off a smooth line or two.

But with this kid, he was completely losing his head; he found himself worrying about how this kid saw him, whether or not his clothes were still clean or if his hair was messed up, and Jean didn't for the life of him know _why_. More than anything, he'd always thought that insecurities were about as useful as trying to put the pin back in the grenade, so why were they popping up now?

“Please, if you could put them in here.” The other boy sighed and set the crate down near Jean, which was about halfway full at this point with what he'd already gathered.

“Oh, sure, yeah,” Jean mumbled, letting the contents of his arms tumble into the box.

Glancing up again, Jean looked just short of stricken as he took in the other boy's happy yet bashful expression.

“Th-thank you for helping, uh...” He looked expectantly at Jean.

“Oh! Jean. Jean Kirschtein.”

The other boy's eyes glazed, and he seemed to roll something around on his tongue. “... _Jean_.” It came out as a murmur. Suddenly, his gaze focused again. “Ah! I'm sorry, my name is Marco. Si, uh, thank you very much. I should be getting to where I was carrying the tomatoes.”

Jean let out a weak laugh. “Right, yeah...” 

Marco hefted the crate up in his arms, taking a few steps forward, then glancing back. “B-but, ah, I hope to see you again.” He smiled once more even as he returned to facing forward, calling out, “Benvenuto a Cortona, Jean!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I want to continue this at some point, but for now I've got to see how my schedule works out. <3


	2. A Domani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically for JeanMarco Week Day 4, "Longing." Really, the prompt is in there! ...Mostly. Sort of. 
> 
> This chapter just involves Jean and Marco being Jean and Marco, but in Italy. It's also definitely slower, but if you want a bit of a chill read I guess that isn't... too much of a bad thing. :\ Plus, make it through this chapter and there's _next chapter_. [wink wink nudge flail trip]

Even though he'd only interacted with Marco for a mere minute, if that, Jean found himself thinking of the other young man surprisingly often the following day. Being basically alone and directionless in a foreign country gave him plenty of reason to crave those friendly, welcoming eyes, he figured.

In any case, Jean was grateful for the arrival of the seventy American students to the town that Monday afternoon. The passage of their large charter buses through the narrow streets was hard to miss, so by the time Connie and Sasha had disembarked, Jean was ready and waiting near their soon-to-be dorm.

"Jean-y Boy!" Sasha skipped over to him excitedly. "I see you haven't taken over control of Cortona yet. What's keeping you? World domination doesn't start itself, you know!"

Jean huffed in exasperation, but his small smile showed that he was pretty amused. "Yeah, yeah, I'm deciding whether or not this place is worth the effort. It sure hasn't done me any favors so far..."

Connie joined the two as other students milled around the parked buses and unloaded their suitcases. He seemed to have overheard the conversation up to this point, as he remarked, "Come on, man, you've only been here for a day, right? Give it a chance!" The shorter boy sidled up to Jean with a grin, nudging him in the side with his elbow. "I bet you just missed us while we traveled in from Rome. Jean, ya big softie!” Connie broke off into raucous laughter, Sasha giggling while nodding her head in agreement.

“Ugh, screw you guys!” Jean retorted, but his grin betrayed him. _So yeah, maybe I missed them_.

“Hey, if you missed us so much,” Sasha said, suddenly very excited, “you should come to dinner with all of the students tonight! The faculty scheduled some kind of celebratory shindig at a nice restaurant in town in honor of it being our first meal here. It sounds like anyone can come if they want, so eat with us!”

Jean's eyebrows rose as he considered this information. It was a nice surprise, since he'd previously thought he wouldn't be able to dine with his friends on weeknights due to the structure of their program's meal plan. “Yeah, alright. Where and when should I meet you?”

* * *

 

So it was that Jean wound up waiting outside Tonino's, the largest restaurant in Cortona.

_Damn, I'm early_. Jean looked around him, wondering what to do. The area leading to Tonino's entrance included a small outdoor dining area and a multi-level patio, all relatively unoccupied. At a loss, Jean sat down at the closest table and decided to spend the extra time taking photos with his phone.

Suddenly, there was a sigh from somewhere nearby. “The view from over there is very beautiful.”

Jean's gaze flicked up at the soft remark, and he felt warmth in his chest when he laid eyes on freckles and a shy grin. “Marco! H-hey!”

As the other smiled sweetly at him, Jean felt some of the previous day's nerves returning. Luckily, he'd decided to dress up slightly for what Sasha had called “the inaugural dinner,” so Jean was at least satisfied with his outer presentation. Thinking on that, though, he found Marco's outfit notable. Unlike yesterday, when he'd looked casual, today the Italian man was dressed in a crisp, white button-up and formal black slacks. Jean tried not to stare at just how flattering it all was to other's tall, solid build, instead asking, “Do you work here?”

“Yes.” Marco rubbed his nose almost self-consciously. “Not all the time, but when the American students come in the summer the restaurant hires more servers.” Marco bit his lip and looked at Jean, the slight tilt of his head showing he was perplexed. “You are here to eat at the party tonight, but you did not come with the students. Are you not one of them?” Before Jean could answer, Marco averted his gaze and added, “I am working here most of the nights that they are here, so I would see you at dinner then.”

Jean's heart fluttered a little, both at the thought of seeing Marco fairly regularly and at the (imagined?) hopeful tone of his voice. However, his spirits sank as he had to answer, “No. I mean, I do go to their university, but I'm not on the program like the rest of them. I probably won't be eating with them if it's not the weekend...”

"Ah." Marco's gaze dimmed slightly.

Jean grimaced, and both of the boys stared away from each other. Jean's eyes finally took in the frustratingly gorgeous view of the valley visible from this area of the patio. “Is there... is there some other place where I could see you?” Jean asked without thinking. When he registered his own words, his wide eyes shot over to Marco.

He wore an expression of wonder, tempered just slightly by the blush that fell across his cheeks. He replied rather hastily, “Yes! I work at my father's restaurant during the daytime. La Fett'unta, very close to the main square. You know where it is?”

Jean nodded, but just then a crowd of students walked right behind him; out of nowhere, Connie's arm was swung around his shoulders and steering him away. He shot a smile back at Marco, waving shyly even as he took in the other's eager face.

* * *

 

In a matter of minutes, the hoard of students and faculty had been seated in Tonino's spacious dining room and a small fleet of servers came around distributing food from their large platters.

Jean made eye contact with Marco as he entered the room, now sporting a black waistcoat over his shirt and a plate of pork cutlets on his arm. The waiter smiled, then glanced away shyly. Jean sighed at how busy the other already seemed to be.

Still watching Marco absentmindedly, he observed the way the waiters worked. For each diner, the server would have to lean over their plate to transfer the piece of food from the main platter with the smallest chance of causing any mess. Marco, being particularly tall, had to practically double over in order to place the pork down. Jean's eyes narrowed as he saw how close Marco's face got to the other students'. While most of them kept quiet as the servers performed their task, a few here and there attempted to converse with the servers, with varying success. His stomach gave a lurch when Marco laughed at something said by one of the table's occupants. Glancing away, Jean tried to concentrate instead on whatever Sasha was saying about the airplane fare from yesterday.

“Ciao, Jean.”

Having managed to zone out slightly, Jean jumped when Marco appeared at his table a few minutes later.

He'd apparently already served everyone on either side of Jean, and bowed expectantly toward Jean's plate while gesturing at the final piece of pork resting on his tray. “May I?”

“Oh! Yes, uh, of course.”

Marco nodded, and bent over by Jean's place. He carefully used a glinting, silver serving fork to retrieve the cutlet, and as he worked, Jean glanced sidelong at Marco's face in profile. A cute, rounded nose; thin, almost imperceptibly-smiling lips; a strong jaw. The tan, smooth skin of his neck looked nice next to the bright white of his shirt's collar, and Jean had to restrain himself from following the line of the nape of his neck, down the swell and dip of the waistcoat's back, moving smoothly along to...

Jean flinched again when Marco's hand grazed his own where it rested by his plate.

Marco almost fumbled the serving fork, but by some miracle Jean caught it and presented the fork to the other boy like a trophy.

“Ahaha... Sorry...” Marco mumbled, eyes darting toward and away from Jean's grinning face.

“No, no, hey.” Jean's expression turned questioning. “Why are you the one apologizing? I'm the one making life tough for you.” Trying to lighten the slightly awkward mood, Jean laughed self-depreciatingly. “Are you sure you want me coming by your dad's restaurant? I might knock over more tomatoes, haha.”

A small smile returned to Marco's face, and he nodded his head vigorously. “Si! Can you come tomorrow? For lunch?”

Jean nodded; once again, that seemed to signal the end of the conversation as the head waiter shooed Marco back toward the kitchen.

* * *

 

After Monday night's rather nice dinner, Jean was eager to make his way to La Fett'unta on Tuesday. It seemed like a peaceful little place; the interior was made up of warm wood furniture with accents of grape vines and vegetables. He didn't spot Marco as he walked in, instead greeted by a younger woman wearing pigtails. She offered him a menu and questioned, “Are you Marco's friend?”

Jean's thoughts erupted. _Has Marco been talking about me? What is he saying? Are we really “friends?”_ He hesitantly answered, “Maybe? I'm Jean.”

She gave a small hum and replied that any friend of the family gets a discount on their order. Jean chuckled weakly and glanced at the menu, but since it was thoroughly in Italian— _I really should have brushed up on that before heading over_ , Jean thought passively—he simply picked a meal from what looked to be a display case, paid, then made his way to his seat.

He didn't get very far into his sandwich before he heard a familiar voice eagerly calling his name.

“Hey, Marco,” Jean greeted as the other boy appeared from a removed entryway and sat at Jean's table. “How are you?”

“I am very wonderful, Jean,” he replied, all sunny smiles and freckles. As a result, Jean had to duck his head to hide the way he'd momentarily choked on his bite of food. “And you?”

Jean cleared his throat. “I'm great. Hey, what's the name of this sandwich? It's amazing.”

Marco glanced at the arrangement of focaccia bread, tuna, fresh vegetables, and olive oil. After a bright laugh, he answered, “That's my favorite, the Mediterranea.” He smiled as Jean continued to tuck in.

After a moment, Marco set a large, folded-up cloth on the table; unfolding it revealed a messy stack of silverware. Marco started to sort the pile into groups of forks, knives, and spoons while making light small talk with Jean, asking what he thought of Cortona so far.

A booming voice eventually called from the same door Marco had come through. Marco hopped up after smiling apologetically at Jean, saying, “I will be right back,” and then darted off.

Jean didn't bother holding back his goofy grin after Marco had gone. Setting his Mediterranea down, he noted that Marco had left the pile of silverware at the table. _Might as well give the guy a hand, after hassling him so much._ He started separating the remaining tangle into neat groupings as Marco had done.

When Marco returned moments later, the stack was completely sorted and Jean had returned to innocently finishing his sandwich. Marco's face broke out into a pleased expression. He seemed to weigh something in his head for a moment, then spoke with a quiet energy.

“Jean,” he started, eyes gazing hopefully at the other's, “my father asked me to go into Camucia, the city at the bottom of the valley, tomorrow, to get a few things for the restaurant. I have the whole day with no work to do it, however...”

Jean had stopped chewing his food, instead facing Marco with raised eyebrows. _Why does he look so hesitant all of the sudden?_

“Would you, possibly, want to come with me?”

Jean's heart leapt, and he wanted to sing out his answer of “ _Yes!”_ but the food still in his mouth prevented him.

Marco, apparently taking his silence as indecision, went on, “There are many fun things to see on our way there, if you would want to. There is the lake, and the cinema, and the sunflower fields...” The final sentence came out as a murmur: “And I thought it would be nice to go with you since you have been so kind to me.”

Jean finally gulped down the rest of his sandwich. “Marco, I would love to go with you. When can we leave?”

Marco's face was flushed and smiling as he answered, and Jean wondered just how he could make that sight a consistent part of his daily routine. “I need to leave around eight in the morning tomorrow. Is that too early? It can be later if—“

“Eight sounds fantastic. I'll meet you outside the restaurant here?” Jean tried not to look too so-giddy-he's-going-to-vibrate-out-of-his-skin excited.

“That would be good.” Marco gathered up the silverware and began to walk back toward the kitchen. “A domani, Jean!”

“See you, Marco.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Sorry again that this chapter is just kind of... wandering. The next chapter should have a little more direction (and fluff!) now that the boys can actually have some quality time together.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Mi Piaci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh oh gosh. 
> 
> Just, ah, here's this chapter. I really hope you guys like it. I was excited to write it. Maybe a bit too excited.

_Eight o'clock eight o'clock eight o'clock eight o'clock..._

Jean's thoughts ran on repeat as he jogged the final steps to La Fett'unta. He couldn't, absolutely wouldn't be late to meet up with Marco, since he would rather drink motor oil than risk Marco leaving without him.

… _even if_ _I did have to wake_ _up at seven in the morning,_ Jean mused grumpily. His sour mood cleared instantly, however, upon hearing a now familiar voice.

“Jean! Buongiorno, principe!” Marco pulled up next to the small restaurant in a rather beat up, baby blue car, and it was just so typically European that Jean had to laugh. “Ready to go?”

Jean grinned as he hopped into the car. Soon enough, they were trundling their way out of the walls of Cortona and down the bumpy hillside.

Marco, apparently just as much of a morning person as Jean (read: not very), was quiet for the first part of the ride. Jean was just fine with that, opting to take in the passing scenery as he continued the gradual process of waking up.

And what a view it was, really. His sleepy eyes slowly widened at bright, colorful bursts of both wildflowers and carefully trimmed gardens; he grinned at the tiny outcroppings of towns that they drove through, dotted with little signs of artistry in the remnants of ancient architecture and new, quaint storefronts; he especially enjoyed the way trendy, though not necessarily young Italians would zip by on their motorbikes or mopeds, looking collected in a nice leather jacket as they leaned into each turn.

He could only focus on the scenery for so long, though. Eventually, he darted a nervous look over at Marco, who was still concentrated on driving but at least smiling slightly. Jean frowned. _Why am I even here, again?_   They didn't really have much to talk about... did they? Marco had mentioned inviting Jean due to how “kind” he was, but that wasn't exactly a perfect description for himself. Jean had definitely mellowed, but he still retained major threads of his hotheaded personality from back when he was, say, sixteen. Would Marco come to mind that? Jean could be so blunt when he spoke, while Marco conveyed himself with a kind of quiet understanding, even through his tentative English. Speaking of...

“Marco,” Jean started without considering his wording, “where did you even learn to speak English?”

Marco's expression perked at the sudden question. He answered with a slight blush, hesitantly, “Sorry, I know my English is not so good—”

“No, no,” Jean backtracked, realizing that his tone might have sounded a bit... biting. “It's great, really. If I could learn another language I so would.”

Marco's look relaxed. “Well, I learned it from my mother. She came from America, on the same program that your friends are doing now. That is how she met my father. They were married five years after she first came over.”

Jean's eyes widened slightly; someone had met their husband on this trip?

After a soft chuckle, Marco continued, “When I was little, she spoke English to me at home, but we speak more Italian today. So my English might not be like it was.” Marco grinned, shooting a glance toward the other boy before returning his eyes to the road.

The private, friendly look was enough to make Jean avert his eyes and try to calm his nerves. To redirect his thoughts from the image now shimmering in his mind, he asked, “What does your mother do now?”

Marco hummed happily. “She is a painter, with her studio in Cortona. Her work is very lovely. She says she is inspired by the beauty of our town. We should visit her gallery together some time,” he suggested softly.

Jean smiled at the description, wondering what Marco's mother painted. He gazed out the window as he contemplated the options, when another vespa streamed by, this time mounted by what looked like a young couple.

“Hey,” Jean had another abrupt thought, “do you own a moped? Or, like, a motorbike?”

“No, since my family had this car, we never needed one.”

Jean was quiet for a moment, then grunted, “I drive a motorcycle. You know, back in the states.”

“Ah.” Marco's eyes followed the vespa as it slipped in front of them. The second passenger's ponytail fluttered out behind the pair. “Do you ride it often?”

“Yeah. Sort of.” _I've never given anyone a ride on it, though..._ He glanced from the vespa over to Marco.

_I would let you ride it._

Jean's expression blanched as the thought passed through his head, but it was like a floodgate; suddenly he was imagining bringing Marco back to visit his home; having Marco slip onto the bike behind him so they could go on a drive together; feeling Marco press up close along his back, fingers tightening into his leather jacket...

Jean, still trying to derail his train of thought, didn't notice the car's gradual deceleration until it finally came to a stop. He glanced out his window with a start.

“We are in Camucia, now.” Once he had turned off the car and removed the keys, Marco glanced over at Jean. “The shop with the restaurant supplies is very close, so I will go and get the order. It will not take long, but if you would like, you could look around a bit while I do this?”

Jean nodded his assent. After exiting the car, he shuffled around the gravel lot where Marco had parked. Nearby was a small park, with several graceful statues and benches shaded by wiry branches. He spent the few minutes simply lying across one such bench, basking in the dappled sunlight...

“Jeaaaaan.”

The boy jerked awake from his nap.

Above him, Marco grinned while haloed by warm, shifting shades of green foliage, and Jean could barely contain the hitch in his breath at how nice a sight it was.

“Jean, come on, I got what was needed. It is in the car, so we can leave. Although,” and here Marco straightened up while glancing wistfully back at the entrance to the town's several shops, “we do have much time left today, and could look around town. If you would like.”

Jean huffed as he sat up. _'If I would like.' Pfffft._ What he said was, “Yeah, definitely, let's do it.”

* * *

 

After strolling casually through several artisan shops (which included buying the biggest meringues Jean had ever _seen_ ; honestly, that thing was bigger than his hand. Still didn't stop him from vacuuming the crumbly pastry down in a matter of seconds, leaving Marco to giggle at the white powder left dusting the bottom half of his face.) the two stumbled into a small church hosting a temporary exhibit of renaissance works of art.

They ambled slowly among the frames and pedestals. Jean, truth be told, didn't take a particular interest in them, even though he'd taken several art history courses and grasped at least a slight understanding of each work. Some of them were just so... repetitive. _Here a saint, there a saint, everywhere a saint-saint..._

Stopping in front of a large canvas entitled _St. Sebastian_ , Jean took in the martyred, arrow-riddled figure. Despite the obvious physical harm to his body, the saint retained rather nice looks. It made sense considering the artists' tendency to idealize figures at that time... but Jean couldn't help but mimic the subject's haughty gaze and mumble, “Don't hate me 'cause you ain't me.”

“What did you say?”

Jean glanced over with alarm, only just noticing that Marco was right next to him.

“Uh... er...” _Oh, great, now he can hear you make immature jokes about_ _art that's sacred to him_ _. Great job there, Jean._

Marco raised his eyebrow slightly, questioning, “Some of the paintings are... a bit... silly. No?”

_Wasn't expecting that_. Mirroring the other's hesitant look, Jean replied, “Yeah... a bit.” He stuck his thumb at _St. Sebastian_. “I was just saying that, uh, this guy kind of looks like he's saying...” Jean swallowed, then decided to go for it. “...saying, 'Don't hate me 'cause you ain't me.' Because, you know... of his face and... stuff...”

Marco was quiet for a moment, before a grin spread across his freckled cheeks. He chuckled, then laughed, then straight-up gasped in sobbing giggles. “That is... that is, ahaha, that is exactly what he looks like. Oh, oh no, ahaha...”

Jean smiled lopsidedly, spurred on. He turned to another work, _Abduction of the Sabine Women_ , and imitated the pose of a distressed woman in the foreground. “'Wait!'” he called in a higher, girlish pitch, “'turn around, I saw a McDonalds back there!'”

Marco laughed harder, gripping his sides.

Jean walked over to a small statue, its plaque reading _Achilles and Thetis_. He took up the famed warrior's stance, turned away from the female figure in the work, and wailed in a whiny cant, “'Mooooooom, stop, you're embarrassing me!'”

Marco had to crouch down and cover his face in his hands, he was laughing so hard, and Jean was glad they were alone in this exhibit, having this small moment together. They continued throughout the gallery, with Jean making sarcastic and exaggerated interpretations of each of the, frankly, over-the-top paintings, each time relishing the sweet, resounding laughter he got in response.

Finally, they reached the end of the exhibit, exiting back into the street with Marco still wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

* * *

 

It was halfway through their drive back to Cortona, a new set of ceramic cups tinkling against each other in the back of the car, that Jean leaned forward in his seat with awe.

“Marco... Marco, since when does Italy have this many sunflowers?”

The other boy glanced over inquisitively, but nodded with happy understanding as he recognized the passing field. “Sunflower fields are very popular in Italy. This one is blooming a bit earlier than usual, though...” He looked over again, and noticed how Jean still stared raptly at the blurred field. “Would you like to stop and see it?”

Jean blinked and turned his attention to Marco. “Huh? Uh... You know what, yeah. I've never seen so many all in one place before.” And it was true; the biggest group of flowers he'd ever seen like this was the home garden center at Pike's, which was nothing compared to the virtually horizonless expanse of yellow flowers now spread beside the road.

Marco smiled and brought the car to a stop on the road's shoulder. “Let's go, then!” With a flash of a grin, he jumped out from the car and ran into the tall stalks.

“Haha, wait for me!” Jean called, still unbuckling himself. By the time he'd made it to the edge of the flowers, Marco was apparently out of sight. “Hey, where'd you go?” he called. After a moment of silence, he called out, “Marco!”

“Polo!” a voice answered from a few yards away, deeper within the field.

Jean stood dumbfounded, before muttering, “Oh, you little _shit..._ ” He grinned and jogged into the field, raising his voice again. “Marco!”

“Polo!” Closer. Jean pushed aside a few stalks, pleased by how warm they were from the afternoon sun. Finally, in front of him, Marco stood studying a particularly tall sunflower.

“Found you!” Jean laughed, coming up to ruffle Marco's hair. “Your turn, now, right?”

“Okay,” Marco grinned back. “Go and hide, and see if I can not find you!”

Jean smirked while playfully punching Marco's arm, then turned off to sprint into the flowers. “We'll see about that!”

A minute later, Marco's voice called out his own name.

“Polo!” Jean responded, traipsing through the sunflowers leisurely.

“Marco!”

Jean huffed giddily; his friend sounded like he was on the right track, but still not in range. Jean yelled out his reply, but then decided to be tricky and started to circle back toward his starting point.

“Marco!” The call was incredibly near now, and when Jean turned he caught a glimpse of his friend's sleeve.

_Got you now..._ Jean slunk through the flowers, and grinned as he saw Marco stumbling ahead of him, unaware of his presence. _He looks like such a dork,_  Jean thought with a smirk, amused by everything from his friend's disheveled hair to one of his untied shoes.All of it added together meant Jean couldn't stop smiling. In fact, he could only barely hold back his snickers as Marco eagerly called out _his own fucking name_ , haplessly moving through the sunflowers.

In a bout of rowdiness, Jean leapt forward through the stalks and _tackled_ Marco to the ground. “Polo!” he huffed, grinning down at him.

… _Fuck_.

Jean froze, shit-eating grin still on his face.

Below him, _below him_ , Marco gazed up with a look of slight surprise; mouth vaguely parted; brown, shining eyes wide with wonder; dark brown locks fanned out messily; and all of it framed by the glorious, bold sunflowers flattened under both their bodies. Marco began to chuckle weakly, and Jean felt his heart jump into his throat as golden afternoon light danced across the other's flushed, freckled face.

“Jean,” he murmured.

It didn't get an outward reaction, though. Jean was stuck, heart hammering in his chest. What could he do? He was floored, he was breathless, he was lost. How did he get here, with this beautiful boy smiling up at him, surrounded by flowers and sunny contentment? Where did he go from here, in this situation that could be both friendly, and decidedly _not?_

What happened now?

“Jean,” Marco repeated. He brought a hand up to touch softly at Jean's cheek, quiet smile still in place.

Jean just blinked down at him. Something... Marco was mouthing something, but the words held no breath, no sound.

Jean leaned forward to try and hear them more clearly. Unfortunately, the shift of his body seemed to break the spell, and Marco too seemed to realize their utter proximity.

Marco laughed nervously, which Jean picked up moments after him. They scrambled away from their positions, avoiding each other's eyes for a bit and trying to collect themselves.

“Haha, Marco, wow, ah...” Jean brushed at his clothes, since they'd probably gotten dirt on them or pollen or something grody like that, right? “Ahaha, man, Marco, that—that was really fun, thanks so much for letting me look around here.” He gave another weak laugh.

“It—it is nothing, Jean. Ah, I'm very glad you enjoyed looking around today. I, I suppose we should head back to the car, now, si?”

“Yeah!” Jean rubbed at the back of his neck, taking a stumbling step away from the flattened patch of flowers. “Yeah, haha, let's do that. Woo, man...”

As they made their way back to the car, Jean was too far ahead to hear Marco's thoughtful hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jokes from the exhibit inspired by: http://chromochaotic.tumblr.com/post/67224621097/plutocrats-that-top-right-corner-is-my-favorite  
> and http://chromochaotic.tumblr.com/post/67668115009/quirkieness-my-art-history-snapchats
> 
> Ohhhh gosh I just really wanted to write this part so bad. Sorry, the boys kind of came up short there, though, huh? Ahaha...
> 
> I'm submitting this is lieu of the second Jeanmarco week's second prompt, since I didn't really like any of my ideas for Titan!Marco. :\


	4. Affascinante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Just wanted to say:
> 
> 1\. I'm so so sorry I took about a month and forever to update! Let's just say, there are people who are bad at time management, and then there's me. If it helps, this chapter is _way_ longer than the others! Eheh.
> 
> 2\. I'm ridiculously glad to hear that people like reading this story! It's just... writing Benvenuto is really nice and indulging for me, but I'd almost feel guilty posting it just for that.
> 
> 3\. Credit for the story still lies with tumblr user xshierux, and if you want a good idea of the visuals of the final scene, just look at her art here:  
> http://xshierux.tumblr.com/post/58509748864/a-reincarnation-au-jean-travels-around-europe-to
> 
> 4\. The first song Marco sings is this one: (translations of certain lines are in the end notes)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zm7_0kRE2XM
> 
> Okay, thank you for reading! I hope you like this chapter~
> 
> (Also, for some of you awesome first peeps to read the chapter, I apologize again; I'm still going through and finding ridiculously weird typos. Siiiigh)

_It's simpler this way,_ Jean found himself thinking.

And then promptly grew confused by his own thought.

On this Saturday, three weeks after Camucia, Jean was still puzzling over the strange discontent in his mind as he made his way to eat with Sasha and Connie. The two were already sitting at a table when Jean approached, laughing for some reason as they caught sight of him.

Connie waved him over. “Jean, you've got to hear about what Eren did to Annie's painting! Armin's trying to cover for him, but like anyone would really believe it was a stray cat, am I right?”

“Yeah, you should have seen it!” Sasha added, swallowing down her laughter.

Jean grinned and tried to shake off his thoughts as he sat down. However, as a testament to how strong their friendship really was, Sasha and Connie caught on to the fact that something was off by the end of their lunch.

“Alright, Jean, spill.” Connie ran a hand over his buzzed head, then fixed Jean with a weighty stare. “You're pulling your whole 'glass case of emotion' act while Sasha and I are living it up. Did something happen?”

Jean tensed, ready to deny it, then realized who he was talking to. He let out an aggravated sigh. “Man... If I knew, I would tell you.”

Sasha tilted her head in sympathy. “Did that cutie waiter from Tonino's turn you down or something?” Then her expression quirked. “Didn't think he would, though, since he smiled when we mentioned you yesterday.”

Jean perked. “He did? Wait, I mean, no, he didn't turn me down. There's, there's nothing to turn down. We're great, just hanging out.” The other two looked at him skeptically, and Jean went on in a rush, “Like, when I'm not sightseeing or hanging out with you guys, and when he's not busy with work or family or whatever, we're chilling together. It's awesome. He didn't turn me down, okay?”

Connie shared a look with Sasha, then regarded Jean thoughtfully. “He didn't turn you up, though, huh?”

“... What?”

Connie huffed, shaking his head. “Don't worry about it. Just, remember man, you're not gonna be in Italy forever.”

Jean blinked. Something in his throat tasted bitter.

Meanwhile, Sasha shot Connie another meaningful glance, mouthing “he's got it bad, huh?”

He nodded back at her, before turning back to Jean. “Hey, you know what, why don't we all spend some time together? We've never gotten to really see this guy out of the restaurant,” Connie suggested with a grin.

Just as Jean firmly replied, “No, no, _no_ , that is an awful idea—” Sasha yelled over him, “ _Brilliant yes bring him to us!_ ”

The more Jean tried to deny them, the more the dastardly duo badgered him, until finally he gave in. “God, I don't know how you haven't ruined his idea of me during all those dinners, sheesh.” Jean groaned, standing up from the table.

Sasha laughed as Connie shooed him off. “Tell him to come by the dorms at noon tomorrow!”

* * *

 

Later the same day, Jean took his breath in pants, each step up the incline taxing his body more than he'd expected.

“Hey, Marco,” he huffed, glancing over at his friend. “Where exactly are we going?”

The other young man, though not breathing quite as hard as Jean, still raised a hand to sweep his short bangs from his forehead before answering. “We are going to the top of town. You have not come up here yet?” When Jean shook his head, Marco continued, “At the top of Cortona is the Fortezza Girafalco. You have to pay to go inside, so we will go on a trail near it.” Marco paused. They had reached a flat, open space, although an entire side was bordered by... one of the most handsome church facades Jean had ever seen.

“Santa Margherita,” Marco supplied from Jean's side. “Cortona's patron saint, and her church.”

Jean nodded, and they both took a moment to rest in the cool shade of the building's entryway. Soon enough, though, the two returned to the path at the opposite side of the clearing.

Jean cleared his throat as they kept walking. “My friends want to hang out with you, uh, tomorrow. You don't have to, though—they're really weird! I can just tell them you're busy if you want.”

“No, I would like to meet with them!” Marco smiled between his breaths. “The American students used to come into town and talk to the Cortonese often, but that does not happen as much anymore. From what I can see. So, yes, I would very much like to speak with them!”

Jean grinned. “Oh! Great, uh, then they were thinking noon tomorrow. If that's cool...?”

Marco returned the grin, before his eyes widened as he glanced ahead. “We're almost there, Jean! Come on!”

Jogging the rest of the way, Jean nearly stumbled as he tried to keep up with Marco—but as the trail widened once again, the breath was stolen from Jean's lungs.

The view was... not so much _grand_ , as soft and lovely. Light, airy clouds lazed along the edges of the rolling horizon, the landscape below them dotted with warm red roofs and vast, quiet fields of hay and flowers; the sky above them a thin, summery blue. Jean could see the gatherings of houses like spilled beads in the folds of the valley below them, and far away, tiny cars glinted like gems as they sped along the pale threads of countryside roads.

Jean turned his head to say something to Marco—he wasn't sure what, he'd never been that great with expressing gratitude—but was left speechless for the second time.

Marco gazed out at the hills around them like he was falling in love all over again, and Jean realized how special it was that Marco had taken him here. It was like showing Jean a precious family photo, or a song by his favorite band... Something he treasured.

Bells rang. Loud and echoing, their steady but sudden tones snapped both Jean and Marco out of their thoughts.

Jean had practically jumped at the first ring, and Marco had to mask his laugh. “It is just ringing the time, Jean. Are you still surprised by the church bells here?”

Jean coughed. “Nah, no, I just—I forgot how close we were to that church. That was really close by, okay?”

Marco pressed his lips together, still trying not to laugh. Jean noted it, though, and drawled, “Oh, so you're completely used to it, then?”

The other man stilled. “Not... not completely. Many people in town are—they barely notice when the bells ring. And they are familiar for me too, but also... ah... I do not know how to say, molto bello. Affascinante. Ah...” He scratched his head, still searching for words. “Ah, quando suonano a festa, they remind me of holidays, special times, weddings...”

Jean caught on the word. “Weddings?”

Marco's eyes lit up. “Yes! Cortona is one of the most popular places in Italy for weddings! It makes our home a really wonderful place to live.” He offered a joking smile, saying, “You chose the best place in the country to travel to!”

Jean had to look away—that private smile, even though it was one of his favorites of Marco's, always got him flustered. “Haha, yeah,” he stalled. Then, mind still jumbled but searching for something to say, Jean asked, “Do you want to get married here?”

Marco blinked.

Jean's brain caught up to his mouth, and he hastily added, “One day! One day, did you plan to get married here? Uh. Or. Uh...”

Marco just watched Jean's expression morph, his own holding hints of everything from amusement to shyness. Eventually he replied, “Yes. I, I think so. That would be very nice, one day in the future, when I run the restaurant and live on my own.” Now, his own cheeks were flushed, eyes averted. “What about you?”

Jean's face dropped. “Would I get married here?” he asked, confused.

“N-no! What about your future? What will you do?”

“Well, I'm studying risk management...”

Marco's brows furrowed. “What is that?”

Jean grimaced. “It's, uh... insurance. How companies secure their assets, in case things go wrong. Kind of.”

Marco stared at him a little blankly. “So then, your future will be...?”

“I'll be a broker for some big company,” Jean said with a shrug. “Live in a city, get paid pretty well...” he went on, staring out at the horizon. _At least my family talks about that with excitement, if nothing else in my life_.

There was a brief silence. Then, “That does not sound like _your_ future, Jean.”

Golden eyes snapped over. Marco gazed at him steadily, expectant.

Jean licked his lips, then started again, “I think... sometimes, that I'd like to be a writer. I mean, it's dumb, whatever, I'm not even that good with words when I talk but. Whatever.”

But Marco just smiled. Apparently satisfied with their time at the lookout, he began leading Jean back down the hill. “You would be a good writer, Jean. People would understand you.” With a chuckle, he added, “Your first book should be about Cortona, of course.”

Jean laughed, but thought about their conversation the entire walk back, and as he lied in bed that night.

* * *

 

The next day, Jean arrived outside the dorms early, wanting to talk to his friends before Marco did.

“Okay, guys, seriously,” he pleaded to a grinning Sasha and Connie. It was a cooler day, for summer in Cortona, meaning standing in the sun was actually tolerable for once. “Please don't be weird at him. Somehow he still thinks I'm sort of cool and if anyone could freak him out it would be you guys.”

“Don't _worry_ ,” Sasha said breezily. “We'll only tell him about the _second_ time you dressed up as—”

Just then, Marco's voice called from the road near the dorm. “Jean!”

“Hey!” he answered, shooting one last stern glance at his completely unheeding friends.

Marco made his way over to where the trio stood in a grassy patch. “Buongiorno,” he greeted with a smile and an extended hand. “I am Marco.”

“Connie,” came the first response, as he grinned and grasped Marco's hand with both of his—before tugging, drawing Marco in closer to himself. “Nice to finally see you outside of Tonino's! And hey, Italians greet their friends with a kiss, right?”

Marco's eyes widened, but then he chuckled. “Yes, of course,” he said as he leaned in and pressed his lips to Connie's cheek. “It's wonderful to meet you.”

Connie released him, but Marco was immediately drawn into a tight hug from Sasha. “Oh, you are a cutie after all!” she said, before stepping back and smiling. “I knew you were a good person after you gave me that dessert Ymir didn't want. I'm Sasha!” She then leaned forward expectantly.

“Nice to meet you, Sasha,” Marco said as he gave her a peck on the cheek. As he straightened again, Marco lifted a bag in his hand, saying, “I brought you two a small—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sasha tutted. “Can't ignore Jean now!”

“Wha—no, he doesn't have to—we already know each other, my god—”

“What? We just want to be fair,” Connie defended.

Marco chuckled again, facing Jean. “It really is just 'hello,'” he said, leaning toward the other.

Jean's shoulders tensed. Gently, Marco's lips touched his cheek, warm and a tad dry.

Marco moved back, smiling. “Hello, Jean.”

“H-hey.” Jean's gaze was glued to the ground.

Sasha and Connie rolled their eyes at each other.

Marco addressed the duo again, presenting them with the long bag in his hand. “So, I wanted to give you this gift from my family. I hope you like it.”

“Did you bring us _wine?_ ” Sasha said, awe dripping from her voice. Now holding the bag, she drew the bottle out to look at the label. “ _Dude_ , this is nice!”

“I like your friend!” Connie shot a grin at Jean, slapping Marco on the back. “Maybe more than I like you!”

Jean spluttered at them, before drawing himself up to look scandalized. “Oh, so he brings you wine and I'm kicked to the curb?”

“Exactly,” Sasha said haughtily, putting her arm around Marco's shoulders so she mirrored Connie.

Everyone stared amongst each other tensely... before breaking down into laughter.

“Ahaha, alright, it's good to meet you,” Connie said while he shook his head. “So, wanna see something really cute?”

Jean and Marco looked at Connie in confusion. “Okay,” Marco replied.

Jean narrowed his eyes, curious. “What are you talking about?”

Sasha tried to contain herself, but shortly broke out into squeals. “ _Kittens!_ The cat over by the drawing studio had kittens, and they're finally old enough to walk around and play with! Ahhh let's go let's go let's go I've wanted to see them all day!”

Sasha darted into the dorm quickly to stash away the wine. Then, following her eager lead, everyone made their way around the stone wall separating the dorms from the studio facilities. They ended up in the area behind one of the main studios, in a corner formed by the stone wall meeting a raised terrace of land. Tucked into this space was a bramble thicket, apparently void of life.

Jean stared at the thicket doubtfully. Sasha could get excited over things she really enjoyed, and he wouldn't blame a mother cat for relocating if someone like his friend had spooked her. Soon enough, though, a tiny head poked out from a passage he hadn't noticed in the bramble, blinking at the newcomers.

“Hello, little guy!” Sasha cooed as she crouched down. “This one always comes out first when I bring them scraps from dinner.”

Connie sat down close to Sasha, leaning his back against the stone wall. “Give 'em some space, Sash. They might be shy at first.”

Luckily, the kittens seemed to be in a playful mood, one tumbling out after another to explore the interesting new scents near their home. The mother cat made her way out as well, watching everything vigilantly but tolerantly from her spot by the thicket.

“Geez, there's a lot of them,” Jean mused as three kittens sniffed around his shoes. Another two nosed at Marco's ankles, while five more played together near Connie and Sasha. “And they all look really different,” he added.

“Cats can have kittens by different fathers in the same litter,” Sasha explained, tickling a smoky gray kitten under its chin.

“Ah, Jean,” Marco said as he pointed to one of the cats near his feet, “this one is the same coloring as you!”

Jean glanced over, bewildered, then snorted at the sight; in a weird coincidence, the kitten Marco had pointed out really did look like him. It had tawny fur along the top of its face and along most of its body, while darker fur made up its chin and the sock markings on its legs. When Marco carefully knelt to lift the kitten into his hands, Jean caught sight of its brother, also near Marco's shoes.

“If that one's me, then the other one is you.”

Marco's gaze shifted to Jean, questioning.

“Well, because of its spots.” He gestured toward the black and white mottled kitten. “They're like the freckles you have. On, uh, your face... Uh... Don't you think?”

Marco's eyes widened, but before he could respond an unknown voice sounded across the yard.

“Sasha! Connie! Hard at work on this weekend's project, I see.”

The two looked up in alarm from where they'd been positioning the kittens in a straight line. “O-oh, Professor Hanji!” Connie stuttered back. “We, uh, we were just taking a break before we got back to work!” His image as the criminal caught red-handed came complete with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh, that's funny, considering the two of you were the only ones who didn't check out supplies from the cabinet on Friday.” Even from his position across the yard, Jean could see the knowing smirk on the teacher's face. “Lucky for you I'm just now heading over to lock up the studio, so if you want the paper you'll need to complete your work...” They trailed off, eyebrows raised meaningfully.

“Right! Yes, we'll come right now, thank you Professor!” Sasha called back. She and Connie scrambled to stand up and join their teacher, the group disappearing around the corner of the drawing studio.

Marco and Jean glanced at each other, laughing quietly.

“What was that about?” Jean eventually chuckled.

Marco just shrugged, eyes returning to the little cat in his hands. He moved to where Connie had been sitting previously, settling against the stone wall of their corner. “Buona sera, leoncino,” he whispered to the kitten now held against his chest.

Jean chuckled as he watched, amused by the way Marco and his tall build completely dwarfed the tiny animal in his arms.

“Ah, wait,” Marco said with disappointment, but the kitten in his hands began to squirm before jumping away to join the others traipsing around the ground.

“Hold on, I'll get it,” Jean assured with a grin.

However, as he made to move toward the small gathering of cats, several broke off into a tumbling mock-fight, right in Jean's path. Alarmed and fearing for the little critters, he planted his foot much to the right of where he'd intended, to avoid the kittens, but was left woefully off-balance. He lurched, twisted—and fell. Right into Marco's lap.

_Oh god_.

Jean sat brittlely where he'd fallen, shocked. Marco, too, seemed to still behind him, arms still halfway raised from where he'd moved to try and catch Jean.

“I... I'm sorry, let me just, uh,” Jean started haltingly. He planted his hands on the ground, meaning to heave himself up.

“Wait.”

_Uh. What?_ Jean's eyes slid to try and see Marco behind him, but he didn't dare move too much, not sure what would happen if he did. And that's when he felt the tiny paws moving over his hands.

The kittens, apparently intrigued by the commotion of physical activity, had started gathering near Jean and Marco. They were rife with curiosity; which meant, apparently, that they now wanted to climb all over Jean and investigate the weird giant who was clumsier than they were.

Jean was frozen, as the one spotted like Marco had started clawing its way up his jeans, others brushing against his legs. All ten of them seemed determined to smother him with fur and cute little noses, restraining him from making any movements that might accidentally bring them harm.

The skin of his arms prickled, his nerves alert but frazzled. Then Marco chuckled.

“Relax, Jean,” he snickered. “I think they like you, so you might have to wait until you may stand again.” His next laugh stirred the hairs at the nape of Jean's neck.

The other boy went tenser still, before, at last, deflating. “Okay,” was his sign of acquiescence. Cautiously, he leaned back until he met Marco's chest. He gulped when Marco's arms came to rest along his own.

“Little mites,” Jean muttered beneath his breath when the kittens immediately started crawling onto the newly accessible surface. Marco chuckled again, and Jean felt the vibrations in his own chest.

They sat there for several minutes without saying much. The kittens continued to tumble about their arms and legs, content to at once cover and completely ignore their human playground. Jean could only sit and watch, a funny warmth bubbling just inside him as the seconds passed. It flared every time he relaxed minutely further into Marco's hold, and absolutely steamed when Marco shifted to rest his chin on Jean's shoulder. Jean could now see the way his friend watched the kittens with contented eyes, the early afternoon sunlight filtering through his irises and just barely bringing out the flecks of gold in them.

Jean returned his gaze forward, exhaling softly. He had to admit, sitting here with Marco, surrounded by his gentle warmth and happiness... he could get used to it.

Eventually, though, the kittens started tiring from their tumbling play. The mother cat, ever aware, gave a sliding yowl to gather her offspring back. She stretched after nudging them back toward the thicket, and once all ten had slipped their way out of sight, followed suit.

Jean swallowed. Wondering if he should move, he stared to the side where Marco's head still rested on his shoulder. And he found, to his amusement, that the other boy had fallen asleep.

“Hey, Marco,” he murmured, raising his shoulder to try and rouse the other. When he still didn't stir, though, Jean lifted himself away from Marco's chest and turned around slightly in his friend's hold. “Marco, come on.”

Brown eyes blinked open slowly. “Hmmm?”

“We should check on Connie and Sasha, okay?”

“Ah... Si...” Still, Marco indulged in a lengthy yawn, not bothering to stand until Jean had taken a few steps toward the studio.

Jean's heart beat a little more rapidly in his chest, but he couldn't pair it with any exact cause. Marco had been so calm about everything. _So why am I so—_

Interrupting his thoughts, Connie and Sasha almost ran into Jean as they rounded a corner.

“H-hey guys!” Sasha said, voice strained. And it wasn't hard to see why: both she and Connie were struggling to move under the weight of an easel each, several pads of paper, drawing boards, and assorted boxes of drawing materials.

“Oh! Do you need assistance with that?” Marco asked, sounding much more awake. He moved forward just in time to catch a tray of pastels from falling off of Sasha's stack.

“Uh... Y-yeah. Actually, uh, do you guys want to do us a huge favor...?” Connie's eyes scanned over both Jean and Marco.

Jean regarded him suspiciously. “...Maybe. What would we have to do?”

“Well,” the shorter man began falteringly, “we had this project to turn in a series of sketches for drawing class on Monday, but uh...”

“We were _maybe_ putting them off until the last minute when Hanji caught us not working on them, and now they're expecting something with a lot more detail than we'd planned on.” Sasha shrugged, even though the movement caused her jaw to twitch from the exertion. “So, uh, could you guys maybe... model for us?”

“You wouldn't have to do a lot!” Connie went on with the explanation. “You'd just have to sit in one place for a while, maybe change poses now and then. Although, actually...” He glanced toward Sasha. “Didn't Hanji say they wanted at least a few more active poses?”

“Yeah,” the other responded thoughtfully, eyes downcast. Then her gaze brightened with an idea. “But it could be something easy! Something you can stay sitting for, like, uh, knitting, or maybe playing an instrument—”

“I have a guitar,” Marco offered, earnest.

“Perfect!” Sasha yelped. “Uh, since we need to get started on it pretty soon, could we meet you two somewhere with it in a couple minutes?”

Marco thought quietly for a moment. “Well... the park would be a good place, since it is close to you and easy for me to get to from home.”

Jean stared over at Marco, expression twisted with confusion at his eagerness.

“What? It sounds like fun!” the freckled man replied.

Sasha moved to seal the deal, though. “Great! We'll see you down there in ten minutes, okay?”

Marco looked questioningly towards Jean, who sighed. “Fine.”

“Yay! You're the best!”

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, there Jean and Marco were, sitting on a bench in Cortona's pleasant small park, Marco's guitar resting against one end. They faced the easels set up by Connie and Sasha... as well as Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Bertholdt, Reiner, Annie, Ymir, and Christa.

“What, did you all put this assignment off until the last minute too?” Jean asked, eyebrows drawn in frustration.

“Well... kind of,” Christa answered for the group.

“Armin's just doing it for extra practice,” Eren provided, sticking his thumb at his blonde friend.

“Hey!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jean rolled his eyes. “So... We just sit here while you guys draw?”

“Pretty much,” Connie answered, just about finished setting up his easel and drawing pad. “Just, uh, choose a spot to look at for a while and we'll let you know when to shift around. Okay?”

Jean grunted his understanding, while Marco nodded. In a short time, Jean was staring off into the mid-distance, slumped back against the bench while his thoughts wandered. The sounds of pencils, charcoal, pastels, and pens scratching against paper surrounded him, along with the vague conversation of passersby and the light burbling of a fountain.

Periodically, Connie would ask Jean and Marco to switch their poses; they mostly just moved their arms and varied their posture, although at one point they turned back to back and let their legs hang over the end of the bench.

“Okay, great!” Sasha finally called. “Now, for those more active poses. Marco, could you...?” She gestured with one charcoal-covered hand to the guitar.

“Yes!” he replied with a smile. Hefting the guitar into his grip and getting comfortable, he then glanced around a tad self-consciously at the circle of artists. “Is it important what I play, or no?”

“Eh, play whatever you want. We'll try not to make this part last too long, just, maybe ten minutes or so?” Connie shrugged and switched out his drawing pad with a large sheet of off-white paper.

Marco blinked at the response. For just an instant, his eyes flicked to Jean, who had been watching him calmly. Marco's eyes returned forward, and he bowed closer to his guitar. “I, ah, I think I know some things to play, then...”

Jean turned to Connie, head tilted. “Hey, does it matter what I do during this?”

Instead, it was Sasha who replied after considering the question. “Well, Hanji wanted something with two figures, so you need to keep posing. But uh, maybe just something casual? Like you're listening to him.”

Jean was okay with that, so he settled back into the bench and set his gaze on Marco. He grinned. “Well Marco, you gonna wow us now?”

Marco rubbed at his nose, chuckling weakly. “Ah, I mean... It will not be too bad, I hope.”

Jean laughed as he shook his head. “I'm sure you'll be fine,” he reassured.

Marco grinned back. When he returned his focus to his guitar, all the students stood ready by their easels.

“Okay, let's go!” Sasha announced.

With that, Marco began strumming. Just once, his eyes slipped over towards Jean again, before they closed and he started singing. And, Jean wasn't an expert. But he was pretty sure Marco was good... _Really good_.

Marco let himself fall into the song, nodding his head as he sang along to a quick beat, his voice making the words ripple and glide through the air.

“ _Non senti che tremo mentre canto, nascondo questa stupida allegria quando mi guardi._ ”

The lower notes made his tone break just a tad, but Jean was more entranced by the way Marco's words shivered just _right_ with vibrato on the higher notes. At one point it sounded as though the song had ended, although Marco simply took the time to shift on the bench, facing more towards Jean, and then continued wringing out bright chords and strings of emotion-wrought words.

“ _Non senti che tremo mentre canto? È il segno di un’estate che vorrei potesse non finire mai._ ”

Eventually, the song did draw to a close, and Marco let his voice trail off just as his fingers fell against the guitar strings one last time. However, the circle of artists continued working away at their easels.

“Keep going,” Ymir grunted from behind her stand. Her posture eased slightly, though, when Marco plucked a mix of low, soothing notes once again.

The pace of this song was much slower, but the most marked difference was the way Marco presented it: he sang with his gaze focused on Jean, eyes happy as he delivered the lyrics with a warm smile.

Jean couldn't help but return it, leaning forward as Marco's voice sounded more full and lovely in this song's range.

“ _Vorrei donare il tuo sorriso alla luna, perché di notte chi la guarda possa pensare a te._ ”

Jean, maybe, got a little lost listening to Marco this time. The melody was just so serene and calming, before it swept upward into the heartfelt chorus. And while Marco sometimes had to close his eyes and simply concentrate on the song, the rest of the time his gaze met Jean's, practically sparkling with happiness.

It came as a surprise when, two songs later, Connie's voice finally breached the air. “Okay, I think we're all done now.” He gazed at his own drawing, before looking at the two on the bench again. “Hey, Marco, that was great! Thank you so much man!”

All the students of the circle expressed their agreement through nods and cheers.

Marco just put his hands over his face, a heavy blush visible between his fingers. Jean made sure he was smiling wide when the other finally looked back up.

“Really, that was fantastic,” Jean commented softly.

The other boy's blush only deepened. He stood up from the bench with his guitar, taking a few steps toward the edge of the circle. “A-ah, th-thank you all. Helping you was very fun, b-but, ah, I believe I need to return home now. To help with, ah, my family.”

Connie waved a hand dismissively. “Go ahead, man! We don't want to keep you after you were so cool for us.” When Marco smiled as he started walking away, Connie made sure to add, “We'll see you soon, okay?”

“Si!” Marco answered even as he neared the park's entrance. “And ciao, Jean!”

“Bye, Marco!” Jean stood and waved his arm as high as he could.

Now that he was standing, Jean took a moment to stretch, before getting curious. He walked forward to study Connie's drawing while the other was busy packing away his supplies.

His brow furrowed. “Did I really look like that?”

Connie's head shot up. “Hey! D-don't just come over and... Whatever. And yeah, you totally had that dopey look on your face the whole time.”

Sasha leaned around the easel, then nodded. “Although, to be fair, he looked the exact same way when he bothered to face you.”

Ymir happily lifted her drawing away from the easel and held it facing Jean. “I liked the way you were leaning toward him. All you had to do next was put your chin in your hands and sigh dreamily, right, loverboy?”

Christa tugged at Ymir's sleeve. “Stop teasing him. Marco did sound very good.”

Everyone in the group nodded again at that, and quiet fell over the circle once more.

“Although...” Bertholdt, surprisingly, spoke up. Jean glanced over, and grew unsettled by the faint flush on the other boy's face. “...you know, my family taught me some Italian, and, uh...” His eyes met Jean's.

“Each of those was a love song.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, translations of the lyrics: 
> 
> 1\. Non senti che tremo mentre canto, nascondo questa stupida allegria quando mi guardi.  
> Can't you feel that I shiver while I'm singing, hiding this stupid happiness when you look at me.
> 
> 2\. Non senti che tremo mentre canto? È il segno di un’estate che vorrei potesse non finire mai.  
> Can't you feel that I shiver while I'm singing? It's the sign of a summer that I wish could never end.
> 
> 3\. Vorrei donare il tuo sorriso alla luna, perché di notte chi la guarda possa pensare a te.  
> I want to give your smile to the moon so that at night whoever sees it can think of you.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Again, I'm super glad to know that people kind of sort of like reading this, haha.


	5. Perfetto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry, I only have this short, quick update. My classes start back tomorrow (today?) and I'd rather get this posted than wait until... I'm not even sure when. The next part will have several, you know, plot-ish things, as well as a bonus bit that I'd meant to include here in the author's note. :\ I wonder if a lot of the authors are thinking the same way, since it feels like there's been a little surge of fics along with the end of my winter break, haha~
> 
> 2\. I'll be checking for typos later, at not-3-AM. c:
> 
> 3\. Bless Jean and his lack of impulse control.

Jean reeled. Blinked. Stumbled back against the bench.

_Marco... sang love songs to me?_

“Ooooh, I knew it! They are so ready to bone!” Ymir yelled after everyone's brief silence.

_No, wait..._ Jean scowled, his mind already finding doubt.

Reiner strolled over to elbow Jean in the side, smirking and booming something about congratulations. When Jean didn't react, however, he fixed him with a questioning gaze. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Armin, after studying the two in the middle of the circle, proposed, “He probably doesn't want to jump to conclusions, Reiner.”

At that, Jean nodded. It was true, he didn't just _like_ Marco and would, truthfully, be mind-numbingly ecstatic if his friend somehow felt the same way. But, just because he sang a few songs as a favor to a group of art students didn't mean Marco was confessing. Those romantic songs were probably just popular ones that he happened to know better than others.  _...Right?_

After a thoughtful hum, Christa spoke up. “He was blushing quite a lot when he left.”

“Was he embarrassed just from singing in front of us, though?” Bertholdt asked, sporting a blush of his own. “And then he didn't know how to take all the praise?”

“He could hardly look at Jean once he'd finished playing,” Annie countered cooly.

Still, Jean shook his head; Marco had been flustered the moment he heard everyone's compliments. Even if he did, maybe, react a little more strongly (and _adorably_ ) to Jean's.

“But did you see the way he looked at him during it all?” Sasha swooned from nearby. “There were stars in his eyes, I'm telling you!”

There was a short pause, before Mikasa quietly added, “I have a picture of it.” Jean, along with the rest of the group, turned in shock to look at the image now pulled up on her smartphone; and of course, displayed there was a very candid shot of Jean and Marco sitting and smiling with eyes only for each other. Marco grinned, mid-strum, and Jean's gaze was one of open, easy affection; he'd never quite realized he was capable of looking at someone like that, actually.

“...That looks like love to me.”

And at that, Jean was even more surprised, as it was Eren who'd made the observation.

His sort-of frienemy regarded Jean with frustration. “Damn it, Horse Face, you really can't see it?”

Jean gulped and, as his eyes looked downward, his mind looked back.

_Gently, Marco's lips touched Jean's cheek, warm and a tad dry. He moved back, smiling. “Hello, Jean.” Marco laughed harder, gripping his sides. Marco gazed out at the hills like he was falling in love. Marco's face was flushed and smiling as he answered._

...If nothing else, Jean knew with certainty that he'd love Marco back. He'd never really tried to deny that one, in his head; but without knowing anything for sure, he hadn't felt the need to do anything about it.

Carefully, Connie entered Jean's field of vision. “Hey, my main man?” He grinned a bit when Jean met his gaze. “You know what you gotta do, right?”

And in seconds, Jean was at the exit of the park, catching bystanders' gazes as his jog sped into a sprint. He rounded a corner, beginning a brief climb that would take him toward Marco's street.

And then, unbidden, there was Connie's voice: _“Just, remember man, you're not gonna be in Italy forever.”_ Followed by Marco's: _“What about your future? What will you do?”_

And lastly, as Jean slowed before Marco's door, his own thought echoed hollowly: _It's simpler this way_.

His limbs hung heavily. What was he doing here? He should just turn back before he got too tangled up. No matter how strong his feelings were right now, it still wasn't too late to restrain them and keep himself from whatever mess this was; he still hadn't crossed the point of no return—

“ _Jean,” Marco murmured, surrounded by sunflowers._

He knocked on the door.

There was no response at first. As the seconds passed, Jean wondered if he'd gone to the wrong place; but, no, he'd met Marco several times outside of this particular house, with its worn stone walls and terracotta roof. Still, each moment let the whirlwind of Jean's thoughts pick up momentum until, once again, he was ready to bolt. And then the door swung open.

“Jean?” Mina, Marco's sister with the pigtails, tilted her head. “Marco didn't say you were coming to visit.”

“Yeah... I, uh...” With a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, Jean's response was the embodiment of “vague.”

Mina side-eyed him, before glancing thoughtfully back over her shoulder. “He just started doing chores, but... I'm sure Marco wouldn't mind if you went to join him. Follow me?”

With a scant nod, Jean stepped over the threshold and trailed Mina down a hallway. It was funny; even though Marco had offered a few times, Jean hadn't been inside his home yet. Despite the calm simplicity of it—the walls were painted a soft, diffused tint of peach, and adorned with graceful frames and ceramic vases—Jean felt his nerves returning full force. Just like when he first set eyes on Marco.

“Here,” Mina said, swinging another door open.

It led to a bathroom. It, too, had an uncomplicated design: white tile, white walls, white porcelain. A single wooden cabinet next to the sink. A set of tall, narrow windows in the opposite wall let sunlight in through the thin curtains covering them.

“Oh!”

And in the room's center, Marco.

He knelt, poised over a large plastic tub with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. Marco looked between Mina and Jean, mouth working for a few moments before his eyes settled on his sister. “Ah, Mina, grazie!”

She returned his gaze for a short span, before sighing and turning away. “Di che cosa?”

“Per rispondere alla...” Marco started, but his sister had already walked off before he could finish. She had seemed to be smiling.

With the two of them alone, Marco presently redirected his attention. “Jean! Uh, come in?”

Jean hesitated, then stepped toward the middle of the bathroom. “Hey, Marco,” he said in some attempt to sound casual. “It's like I just saw you, huh? Weird.”

Marco grinned, biting his lip at Jean's clear nervousness; déjà vu.

Jean cursed a little internally, before Marco's voice sounded again: “Were... Did you run here?” His eyes now held a glint of concern as they took in Jean's slight panting and sheen of perspiration.

“ _I—er—_ maybe took it at a light jog, yeah. I just wanted to...” Jean's voice was incredibly high. He cleared his throat, and Marco... he went pale.

Jean, unused to seeing his easygoing friend react with anything like anxiety, choked on his words. And chickened out. “...to apologize for how weird my friends can be. Haha! Sorry, they're total wackjobs, am I right? Uh. So. What are you doing?” he asked, making frantic yet vague gestures at Marco's current set up.

Marco was still for a few moments. Then, swallowing and turning back toward the tub, he attempted a relaxed shrug.“I am washing clothes.”

Relieved at the topic change, Jean went with his gut reaction. “You're doing laundry? _By hand?_ ”

And now, Marco's eyes slid up to Jean's, both of their gazes narrowed. “You... have not been doing it this way?”

“Eh.” Jean moved to sit by the tub. “The hostel I'm at has a washing machine, so.” He went on as Marco continued to stare perplexedly at him, “I have to pay three euro each time, but it's been okay.”

Marco gently frowned at Jean. “Come here. You are going to help.” Jean's eyebrows shot up, but he scooted closer to his friend. Marco muttered something about “wasting electricity” and “expensive” before speaking more audibly, “Alright, I have already added the soap and put in the clothes, but we need to mix it some and then let it be.”

Jean listened, and for the next few minutes followed Marco's instructions as he showed him how to knead the clothing and rub out their stains. Occasionally, Marco would glance over at Jean almost searchingly as they worked. He opened his mouth several times as if he were about to speak, even, but eventually let quiet reign over them.

In truth, there wasn't much they had to do at this point. The clothes just needed to soak, requiring a light stir every couple of minutes. Marco decided to give Jean a tour around his home in the meantime. Everything matched the pleasantness of the hallway, Jean observed, from the crowded yet clearly highly-functional kitchen to the lovely, cosy living room opposite it. Marco talked for a bit about how the ceramics on display were works by his mother, as well as some of the more ornate framed pieces. He'd been about to lead Jean up a flight of stairs, but slowed on the first step.

“We should, ah, probably rinse the clothes,” he explained, turning completely around to head back toward the bathroom. Jean followed and tried to ignore the twist in his gut.

As they again came to the tub, Marco hefted it up and began to pour the excess water from its contents. “Are you ready for the tough part?” he asked once the sudsy water had been mostly drained.

Jean cracked his knuckles. “Bring it!”

“Okay,” Marco chuckled. “Help me wash out the clothes until no more soap is in them. Then put them in the bath, for now.”

Jean nodded, ready to follow Marco's lead, and quickly discovered that Marco had been right about this being the most difficult part. His hands began to ache from wringing out each article of clothing, only to hold it under the sink's running faucet until it was drenched, and then squeeze the water out of it once again. In fact, with almost every piece, he ended up having to rinse and repeat the process several times until detergent bubbles finally stopped appearing in the runoff.

All of the mind-numbing repetition did help, though, as Jean's buzzing thoughts slowly settled to the back of his mind like sediment to a riverbed. It was nice to appreciate this relaxed, peaceful moment as he worked together next to Marco, breathing quietly in the bathroom as dust motes drifted in the sunny rays—

When, unintentionally, Jean placed a wrinkled, damp shirt too close to the pour of the faucet. Water sputtered and sprayed upward over Marco's arms.

“H-hey!” The freckled man laughed. “Watch how you're doing it!”

“I didn't mean to!” Jean defended. “I, I was just getting used to the motion, and... and just...”

Marco rolled his eyes at him, continuing to expertly wring out a pair of pants before tossing the sopping heap perfectly over his shoulder into the bathtub. His gaze slid to Jean, one eyebrow raised teasingly.

Jean opened his mouth, expression caught between disbelief and amusement. He put one hand over his chest. “Excuse me, Marco Bodt. Did you just... _sass_ me?”

Marco took a moment to analyze the words, then grinned extra widely at Jean. “And if I did so?”

Jean's jaw dropped further, an incredulous huff escaping him. “Oh, it is _on_ , 'Laundry Master!'” Marco just barely had enough time to duck out of the way before Jean pressed his palm almost completely over the faucet; water came spritzing out from between his fingers, landing somewhat on Marco's hair but almost entirely, otherwise, on Jean's chest.

“Frick!” Jean yelped just as he laughed. Marco, likewise, fell to the onslaught of laughter, and the two of them sank to their knees, clutching at their stomachs as chuckles overtook them.

Eventually, Marco wiped the tears away from his eyes and sat up slightly. “O-okay, that was all of the clothes. Next we must put them back in the tub to carry them outside, where they can dry.” He kicked lightly at Jean's side. “Come on, help me with this too. Unless you mean to splash more water onto us,” he poked with a grin.

Jean snorted, but stood up to do as Marco said. Shortly, they'd reloaded the wrung-out clothes into the plastic tub, which Marco held against his waist as he started to exit the bathroom.

“Wait,” Jean breathed, a hint of laughter still present in his voice. “Let me put this in there, too, since it needs to dry off now.” And then, without really thinking about it, Jean slipped his shirt off and tossed it into the tub.

Marco stared down at the pile in his arms, then over to Jean, lips parted just so. “Ah... You, uh,” he started, but his voice caught. Marco coughed, averted his eyes, and tried again, “You are sure?”

Jean felt the briefest hint of confusion at Marco's tone, before realization hit. Was Marco _distracted_ by his being shirtless...?

“...Yeah,” Jean ultimately replied, voice strained.

Marco met Jean's sight again (but not before Jean felt sparks at how noticeably Marco blushed), and then turned swiftly to lead them through a back door, to the outside.

Staring around, Jean felt something in his chest ache as he studied the area Marco had led them to. It was small; on opposite sides, stone walls met with an earthy terrace making the enclosed space a courtyard. The fourth edge, though, was open to the vast view offered by standing right in the middle of the hillside of Cortona. Still, Jean's eyes left the view quickly enough to settle on the main offering of the courtyard; namely, the bowing laundry lines strung between the parallel walls, weighed down by flapping, billowing articles of clothing.

“Were you doing laundry all day?” Jean joked.

Marco chuckled softly. “Before I came to meet with your friends, yes.”

Jean let out a low whistle, then noticed that Marco had already started to pin up pieces on the one free line, closest to the lookout. Scrambling to catch up, he pulled a damp shirt from within the tub and used clothespins to suspend it in the air.

“Perfetto, Jean!” Marco called with a smile. Jean shook his head fondly, continuing to empty the tub of its load.

They reached the bottom soon enough. Jean stared proudly at the newly strung line, hanging somewhat more heavily than all the others with its wetter weight. Marco, meanwhile, lifted the tub again and headed toward the earthen wall across the courtyard.

“Hey, aren't we done?” Jean asked, moving quickly to stay near Marco.

“You are,” Marco laughed. “I need to take down the sheets from this morning, though, and you will not know which ones to take down and leave up. So be lazy,” he finished, grinning.

Even though Jean scoffed, Marco seemed determined to do this himself. He directed Jean's attention to what looked like an ancient slab of rock, now fashioned into a sort of bench near the door where they'd first exited. Jean took the hint, putting his hands up as he made his way over to take a seat.

Sitting again was a moderate relief after running his way up to Marco's residence in the afternoon sun, and Jean took a moment to bask in the almost-setting light, the stone beneath him warm from being in the same heat all day. A gentle breeze brought temperate air gliding over his skin, as well. As Jean saw Marco take down a fluttering sheet from the clothesline, he sank into a truly deep sense of relaxation.

This time, when Jean's thoughts bubbled back up, he was able to consider them with a certain calmness. He wondered what it would mean if Marco loved him. They had been spending time together for about a month, and Jean had never felt so close to anyone before. Not just close, and not just affectionate, either; his feelings, somehow, held more than the flash-burst of a minor crush now.

Jean thought. One day, he wanted to sit back on that park bench with Marco, in winter, and watch snow fall into his dark hair. He wanted to wake up to him in the morning and hear him mumble in sleepy Italian, maybe starting to understand the quiet phrases. He wanted, he realized as he watched Marco unpin another set of billowing folds, to be with him like this every weekend, hanging up their laundry in their own little courtyard.

And if he liked the guy goddamned enough to watch him do chores, then... why let his fear of an ending stop a beautiful beginning?

Jean stood from the bench, the stones of the wall behind him grazing his bare back.

Marco looked over, noticing the movement; the pale blue sheet fluttered from where it was folded over his arms.

In less than 5 seconds, Jean was kissing Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo!


	6. Baciami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco shows that if you water your Jean daily and give him proper, loving care, he makes it all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Guys. Why am I not a trashy romance author. I feel so mushy right now. 
> 
> 2\. There's some more Italian in this chapter, and I dearly hope it's all correct, but let me know if anything needs tweaking.
> 
> 3\. Thank you all so much for these comments! Not gonna lie, sometimes when I feel down, I just go through what you guys write and grin and laugh--because some of them are really cute and sweet and make my heart go all fluffy, and some of them make me cackle because y'all are just ridiculous. Also, speaking of comments, after chapter 4 IrukaOrihara had this really cute suggestion of an addition to the scene with the kittens, so I wanted to add it to the start of this chapter as a little bonus:
> 
> Connie's hands, already occupied by several pounds of drawing materials, were unable to make the angry gestures he so wanted to accompany his frustrated ranting. “I can't believe Hanji wants another five action poses; what happened to them being the chill instructor who let their students experiment how they want? Huh?”
> 
> As the two students neared the edge of the studio building, Sasha let out a moan of agreement. Nevermind the fact that she and Connie both knew they probably could have saved themselves some grief if they'd started their assignment a tad earlier. Honestly, who (other than Armin) did that? Sasha was about to join in Connie's wallowing when her eyes took in the sight around the corner of the studio. 
> 
> “Connie, stop!” she hissed, before scurrying back a few steps.
> 
> “Huh?” He halted and fixed her with a confused stare. “What is it?”
> 
> “Jean!” she whispered back shrilly. “OhmygodJeanandMarcosoadorableohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh—”
> 
> Connie frowned at Sasha's practical meltdown, turning back toward the corner of the studio building. Shortly, he saw what Sasha was going on about, and had to admit that it was a pretty cutesy scene: Jean sat cuddled in Marco's arms, the pair quietly entwined as kittens stumbled around their legs. 
> 
> “Connie, get back, they'll see you!” 
> 
> “Nuh-uh, not until I get a pic of this!” Then, in an incredible show of kinesthetic intelligence, Connie managed to balance his entire pile in one hand while his other dug his phone from his back pocket. “Just... gotta frame this right...” he mumbled. Sasha peered over his shoulder as the camera focused. Connie snapped the photo, and the two of them stepped back to view the result. 
> 
> It was a charming little picture. Highlighted by warm patches of gold sunlight, the two figures were entangled with each other, completely at ease. Marco's eyes were closed in an expression of profound tranquility, while Jean... Jean looked at Marco with something remarkably close, Sasha thought, to love.
> 
> Over the phone's screen, Connie and Sasha met each other's eyes excitedly. 
> 
> “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
> 
> “Do you wanna start an inter-student contest to see who can get the best photo of the two lovebirds, too?” 
> 
> “Hell yes I do!”
> 
> The two twittered as their next plot began to take shape, but their muted excitement was soon interrupted as the subjects of their plan rounded the corner and almost smacked into them. 
> 
> Oh, the things these two had in store. 
> 
> 4\. Okay, that's it! Thank you so so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

“Christ, seriously, just tell us already!”

Jean smirked, tearing a piece of bread off from the loaf in the middle of the table and dabbing it into some olive oil. “Tell you what?”

Reiner leaned forward and planted his hands on either side of his plate. “The kiss! You guys totally made out, don't lie to us! You're even wearing a different shirt!” On either side of him, the girls from today's drawing session nodded sagely. Even a few guys from the other table seemed to angle their ears in Jean's direction. “What, did you already get jizz on the other one?”

Jean shook his head tiredly, but couldn't keep the smile off his face. Almost all the chicks—and Reiner, of course—had been hounding him to talk about his recent time with Marco, now that they'd all arrived at the restaurant where they'd be having this Sunday's dinner.

He chewed his piece of bread, then swallowed. “You know what? Fine, I'll tell you.” He held up his hands. “Just so that you'll lay off of me, finally.”

Ymir scoffed, not particularly interested in the conversation. “Like you haven't been jumping out of your panties to talk about your boytoy.”

Jean stared at her, just... displeased. Then he brushed off the feeling, thinking back to Marco's courtyard. How could he be bothered when he knew that amazing, awesome courtyard existed? “So,” Jean began, “he was there, taking down his laundry. And, well, I finally got some shit figured out, and I stand up to walk over to him...”

Jean zoned out a little, thinking back to that moment.

In that exact millisecond when he'd stood, he and Marco had made eye contact. And there must have been something heated in his gaze because Marco had just seemed to _know_ what was coming; when Jean strode over and practically swept Marco into his arms, the other man was ready, eyes sliding shut right when Jean's lips sealed over his.

Of course, kissing Marco was probably the best decision of Jean's life so far: better than his choice to get contacts in 9th grade, better than when he decided to help out that bald kid reaching for his top locker shelf when they were in middle school, and way better than when he'd picked fencing over karate lessons when he was 10. Marco melted into the kiss like he'd been dreaming of it for years. As his hands came up to grasp at Jean's arms, the sheet that had been in his hold billowed out around them, flapping in the gentle breeze. It made Jean feel closed in, safe, hidden from the rest of the world; he took the opportunity to press into Marco all the more, arms tightening around Marco's waist, clutching at the sides of his shirt.

A high whimper left Marco's throat, and he shakily pushed away from Jean. And he was beautiful, right then, lips parted and shining, flushed, the vibrant colors of their surroundings reflecting in his wide, dark eyes.

Jean's voice caught, but he managed to croak out, “Sorry, I—what's wrong? Was that not...?”

Marco's expression wavered between smiling and crying, and there was a hint of confused laughter in his reply: “No, no, I—ti adoro, Jean. I, ah, I was not sure that you also felt this way. And now, you... Our cultures are very different, and I thought maybe I misunderstood.” Marco shook his head, bemused. “You Americans... sometimes...” He laughed again, but it withered in a way that made Jean's heart clench. “You will have to go back there, though. Away from Cortona, and I won't see you or hear you or—” Marco's words ran together, and he started to struggle out of Jean's hold.

“No, no, no, shhh,” Jean interrupted, trying to reassure the other. “Marco,” he paused to brush a soft kiss to one freckled cheek, “...fuck that.” Well. He never claimed to have the most flowery of speech patterns. “I don't know how to say that I really don't give a single flying fuck about distance, or the States, or how much time we have, when I know I can be with you _now_.” Marco was still silent, though, and Jean shuffled closer to speak beseechingly, “I just want—I _need—_ ” He cut off as his voice broke.

Marco licked his lips as he considered Jean's words, the minute movement followed acutely by Jean's eyes. Finally, he rested his forehead against Jean's with a sigh. “You are right, Tesoro.”

Cautiously, Jean brought his gaze up to meet Marco's. “So... Would you be okay with that? I have four more weeks here, and. I mean. It's true, I would have to go pretty far, after that, but depending on how we feel then... maybe I could...”

Finally, Marco's true, radiant smile returned to spread across his cheeks. “We have already been fools with our time, worrying too much, I think. We should... how you said, 'fuck that,'” Marco finished with a chuckle.

Jean stared at Marco, dumbstruck, because— _wow_ , he'd never felt a wave of affection come over him quite so swiftly before. A grin split his face. “ _Marco_ ,” was all he could say with a breathy chuckle as he leaned back in.

Marco didn't seem to mind as Jean pressed their bodies even tighter together, one hand rumpling up Marco's shirt to slip underneath to warm skin. Marco's fingers had made themselves at home tangled in Jean's hair, and who was he to complain, when Marco used this grip to slot Jean's mouth perfectly against his own panting lips? As Jean swept his tongue languidly across Marco's, the other man shivered in his arms. Jean instantaneously wanted his hands to have already been everywhere, already mapped out every inch of Marco's warm, lovely skin. And he would; he'd start working on that right now, tugging Marco's shirt up to reveal more freckles and trembling—

“Marco?”

The two of them froze. From the open door of Marco's house, Mina's calls could be heard as she searched for her brother. “Fratello?”

Jean and Marco parted quickly, but reluctantly, eyes lingering on each other even as Mina poked her head out to survey the courtyard. “Ah, Fratello! Babbo just told me...” but here, her words quieted. She seemed to note the way the two men looked at each other, as well as the plain fact that Jean was rather shamelessly shirtless. Still, she pressed on. “...just told me, that he needs us to come help at the restaurant tonight. There's a crowd.”

Marco wiped one hand over his face as he let out a shuddering sigh. “Okay, Mina. I need one minute before we leave.” He whispered to Jean, “To get you a dry shirt.”

Jean could only nod as he watched Marco slip back into the house with his pile of sheets. Then, after shaking himself a little more into awareness, he ambled over to Mina so that they could wait on Marco together.

“You know,” she spoke up abruptly; Jean hadn't expected her to talk much with him, even though she was slightly more comfortable with English than Marco. “I'm happy for you two. Only... Be careful. Our mother will be fine with everything, but our father... Of course, he will love his children no matter what, but. He simply, ah... Marco hasn't actively told him anything, I think. And. Well.” She offered a slightly strained smile. “Just be careful.”

Jean only had time to respond with a wide-eyed “thank you,” before Marco reunited with them, handing Jean one of his own T-shirts. Then they were all off to the restaurant together, where Jean found himself now...

...regaling half the advanced drawing class in the middle of La Fett'unta with this story of his and Marco's first kiss. Maybe not the whole story, actually. Not even a third of it. Jean realized he'd kept a majority of those recent, fond memories for himself, only sharing a few scant details, like Marco's hesitancy and Mina's cautioning.

His listeners seemed satisfied, though. “Oh, it sounds like a fairy-tale!” Christa giggled. “Just you and Marco, secreted away in a courtyard...”

“I hope his family is okay with it all, though,” Sasha said with a dramatic sigh.

The conversation drifted again, as the table discussed different cultures and family dynamics and attitudes of acceptance, until everyone had worked their way through their dinners of ravioli and pizza and soup. As plates emptied, the dialogue shifted to Jean again: “So, what will you and Marco do now?”

Jean squirmed a little, but grinned. “Enjoy our time together. I... shit, I don't want to spend another day without seeing him. Is that sappy?” He laughed as Reiner slapped him on the back and Sasha punched him in the arm.

“Hell yeah it is, dude!” Connie shouted from the next table over.

Jean snorted. “Whatever. After that, it just depends on how we feel, I think. We'll figure it out.”

With those words, a few students looked at Jean encouragingly; others gave him skeptic frowns, making Jean scowl. He was about to call them out on it, rising from his seat to do just that, when Marco himself walked out from the kitchen and smiled at Jean. The riled man immediately felt himself unwind.

“Ciao,” Marco sang once he'd reached Jean. “Is everything okay?”

“Now, yeah,” Jean said softly. He knocked his knee against Marco's with a quiet smile. “What about you? Not too busy?”

Marco chuckled. “This is more people than usual, but I still have time for _this_.” And with a little flourish, Marco set a plate down before Jean holding some type of light, delicious-looking cream—it seemed a bit like pudding, but slightly more solid—covered with an oozing chocolate sauce. “Panna cotta,” Marco labelled it. Then, he brought his face very close to Jean's ear and whispered, “For you, mio bel principe.”

Jean could feel his face heating up as Marco strolled away, eyes locked onto the plate before him.

“ _What?_ No fair, I want free dessert!” Sasha griped.

Reiner, though, leered at Jean. “Damn, someone must have _really_ liked that kissing earlier.”

The entire table laughed, and Jean was left to swim in his own mess of sugary, flustered, and _mind-blowingly_ affectionate bliss.

 

* * *

 

That evening at La Fett'unta was, Jean found out, a lovely indicator of how the rest of his week would pass. Marco took to being romantic so well, it made Jean's head spin. He also noticed, though, that every morning that he woke up in his hostel bed now came along with a small ache. The pang wouldn't go away until he knocked at Marco's door, or met him in the main square, or picked him up from outside Tonino's. Jean would worry, but he knew it was just due to the fact that he could finally free-fall for Marco.

Then again, fall wasn't quite the right word. Each passing day was more like settling; Jean sank into Marco's affection the same way he'd curl into a bed of familiar, warm blankets. He basked in the curve of Marco's private smile, as they ate fresh-baked pastries at five in the morning (Marco had shown him the back entrance of the bakery on Via Nazionale, whose owner would always give pieces from her pre-dawn batches to those who knew to knock). He came to rest in Marco's eyes, and the way they sparkled with mirth when Jean tried (and only barely succeeded) to play bocce ball with the other students at the court outside their dorms.

He dwelled particularly on Marco's laugh, as they walked through a Sunday market in Piazza Signorelli. Jean was spending his time there amusing Marco with the wares at each of the cluttered tables. At one, he picked up a clunky, rusted key and asked if it would unlock Marco's heart; at another, he hefted up a rickety old camera and pointed it toward Marco, telling him to strike a pose. Marco grabbed a dusty scarf from nearby and flipped it around his neck, unable to stop chuckling even as he pointed his nose up and pretended to model. The action did result in a number of photos being taken, but mostly by the art students. They seemed to be jostling each other to try and snap the best picture of Jean and Marco, though neither of the two were exactly sure why...

When Marco stopped in front of a table to longingly eye its array of delicate, inlaid-wood music boxes, Jean excitedly urged Marco to choose a favorite, and then bought it right there.

More than anything, though, Jean found his home in Marco's arms. They lied facing each other in Marco's courtyard, the music box sitting between them and playing its tinkling tune.

“Hey, Marco,” Jean murmured as the song slowed to a stop. “Teach me some Italian.”

“Hm? Is there something in particular you want to say?”

“Nah,” Jean smiled. “Just whatever comes to mind.”

Marco scooted closer, grinning and wiggling his fingers a little against the small of Jean's back. “Okay. How about... 'Sono pazzo di te.'”

Jean concentrated, and repeated the phrase back to Marco, stuttering a tad on the staccato syllables.

Marco grinned. “That means 'I am crazy about you.'” After Jean laughed at the admission, he went on, “Now try 'Ti penso ogni giorno.' It means 'I think of you every day.'”

Jean nuzzled his head against Marco's. “'Ti penso ogni giorno.' _And_ every night,” Jean added with a smirk.

Marco blushed, and averted his eyes as he tried to think of another phrase. His expression turned wistful as he suggested, “'Voglio passare il resto della mia vita con te.'”

Right then, Jean's cellphone started ringing, but he ignored it in favor of asking, “What does that one mean?”

Marco bit his lip, then met Jean's eyes and whispered, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Jean swallowed as his phone entered its second round of ringing. He parted his lips to vocalize something, but his mouth suddenly felt dry. He gazed into Marco's eyes, let his fingers trace against his jaw, and felt utterly unable to speak.

“Jean,” Marco finally said. He smiled. “Baciami.”

Jean didn't have to ask for translation.

As his lips met Marco's again, the cell's ringing died, leaving the two enveloped in quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huh. international phone calls are pretty expensive, you know.


	7. Mio Cuore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I should have put this in the last chapter note, but a thousand thanks go to tumblr user [quichetein](http://quichetein.co.vu/) for helping me understand Marco's family; I basically quoted you word for word in Mina's dialogue. 
> 
> 2\. Another thousand thanks to Phixuscarus for [THIS GORGEOUS WONDERFUL FANART](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/74562622352/benvenuto-dedicating-this-for-chromochaotic-for). I LOVE YOU ;~;
> 
> 3\. This is just kind of funny, but another tumblr user made this [jeanmarco fanmix](http://the-kcrs.tumblr.com/post/75180206808/scusami-an-italian-jeanmarco-fanmix) consisting entirely of Italian songs, and the first one is the same song Marco performed earlier. It fits this fic pretty well, right?
> 
> 4\. So you know, we're _maybe, possibly,_ almost done. Thank you all so much for reading up to this point and being so nice! I love seeing people mention this fic and their cute reactions, especially people saying it makes them feel good~ Let it never be said that jeanmarco fans can't enjoy some solid fluff. Also, heads up that I'm going to be weird and try and reply to all the nice comments UNREASONABLY LATE. Sorry/thank you!!
> 
> 5\. Alright, time to... erm... move the story along... Uh. E-en-j-joy?

_Doesn't get better than this, Kirschtein_. Jean smirked as he leaned against the doorway of Marco's home, the two of them just about ready to part ways this fine Sunday evening. They'd spent all afternoon in the courtyard, decidedly _not_ talking, and Marco's lingering flush only made Jean's grin stretch wider.

Just as Jean was about to murmur his final “I can't wait to see you tomorrow” of their exchange (they'd been going back and forth, repeating variations of that farewell yet refusing to step away from each other for a good five minutes), Marco's eyes widened. Jean hummed curiously.

Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “I almost forgot to say, ah... I have been speaking to my mother about you. And us.” When Jean's expression paled, Marco was quick to continue, “She is very excited to meet you! She would like to know if, tomorrow, you would come with me to her studio to visit?”

Jean cleared his throat as he considered the idea. Marco wanted him to come talk to his mother, which was, you know, a perfectly logical sort of thing for them to consider. Since they were dating and all. He was dating Marco Bodt. Marco Bodt was dating him. And his precious, freckled, Italian boyfriend wanted him to get to know his mother, the same way any other couple in an established relationship would want to bring their loved ones together. Yeah.

Jean couldn't keep his smile from getting any larger. “Of course,” he finally replied. “When should I meet you? And where?”

Marco toyed with Jean's fingers as he thought it over. Fondly, Jean reflected that subtle, almost constant physical affection was another surprising but entirely welcome facet of being with Marco.

Once they'd decided on going to the main square after Marco got off work in the afternoon, the Italian man stepped back at last to see Jean off.

Jean certainly wasn't going to take that as his farewell.

“Jea—nnf?” Marco's question was cut off when Jean moved forward, wrapped his arms around the other, and laid into those soft lips with a deep kiss. Marco wore a wonderfully startled expression when Jean pulled away.

“Bye,” he breathed with a smirk, backing into the street quickly.

Maybe Marco's romance was rubbing off on him.

–

“Jean... calm down.”

At the mention of his name, Jean glanced over to where Marco walked beside him. They were currently making their way down Via Guelfa and would be at the studio in no time.

Jean gave a strained smile. “Guess I can't really hide my nerves well, huh?”

Marco laughed. “You could not hide a whisper well, Principe,” he said as he brushed the back of his knuckles against Jean's cheek. “And I would not like you any other way,” he finished, much more softly.

Unable to hold back his responding grin, Jean still felt his jaw twitch as they abruptly stopped on the side of the street. Here, he was faced with a large glass window, a sign hanging above its whimsical display of small sculptures and paintings reading “Galleria 76.”

Giving an encouraging nod, Marco gestured for Jean to step through the already open doorway.

Other than the two of them, no one else appeared to be inside. Jean took this opportunity to examine the small room; it was partitioned by a set of shelves in the middle that clearly relegated a different type of craft to each of the four corners. Only the display window and a counter with a small cashier's station opposite it broke up the quadrant layout.

Jean then saw that if he stepped to his right, he could see around the counter, and belatedly noticed a small staircase leading down to what looked to be a basement. Through the passageway, he could see a paint-splattered table, several open containers of pigment, a leaning stack of canvases...

And a willowy woman, making her way up the stairs. “Hello!” she called as she reached the top. “You must be Jean.”

He stood up straighter. “Yes, th-that's me. And you are...” he shot an uncertain glance at Marco, before returning his eyes forward. “...Signora Bodt?”

With a laugh, she came forward and swept Jean into a hug. “Call me Danielle, dear. I'm so happy to meet you, finally!”

Hesitantly, Jean returned the motherly embrace, then moved back. Before him stood Marco's mother, the same woman who had come on this program years ago, met Marco's father, and transplanted herself right into the middle of Cortona. Unlike Marco, whose height was balanced by the pleasant solidity of his build, Danielle had more of a delicate look as her clothes rested loosely around her slender shoulders and limbs. She radiated the same gentle warmth as Marco did, despite this, and Jean found himself wondering if she'd been anything like Connie or Sasha back when she was a student with the university.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Jean replied, “I'm glad to meet you too. I really hope Marco's been saying nice things about me, if you've already heard so much.” He tried to pair his joke with a humble grin, praying that his default grim expression was hidden away.

“Oh, of course, of course! You should hear the way he goes on about you.” Danielle shot a wink toward Marco, whose eyes darted away bashfully. “I'm sure he doesn't mention me in nearly the same way, though.”

Jean shook his head. “No, he was really happy to talk about you and your artwork!” Gaze scanning around the room again, Jean commented, “Wow, this is all incredible...”

Danielle crossed her wiry arms proudly. “Thank you. Of course, only about half of it is mine; I also receive works shipped in from other areas, and offer to sell it alongside my own. Cortona is a great place to put things on display. It's so international.” At that, Jean looked at her questioningly. “You know, tourists coming here from all around, celebrities making their homes here, that sort of thing. It's part of the reason I feel so inspired here.” With a glowing smile, she tilted her head toward Marco. “The other part is what's already here, born to Cortona. This town is something special, isn't it?”

Jean blinked slowly and fixed a warm gaze on Marco. “It certainly is.”

Marco's expression went pink, and apparently to be funny but also to hide his flush, he turned away and busied himself with straightening things on the cashier's counter.

Jean chuckled. When his gaze returned to Danielle, he was surprised to find her studying him closely, a small smile on her lips. She seemed to know that he would grow tense under her scrutiny, though, and quickly shifted both their thoughts. “Here, Jean! Why haven't you had any cherries yet? I got them for your visit,” she said, gesturing to a bowl he just now noticed sitting by the cash register.

“Haha, sorry, I—I didn't see them before, when I was looking around.” Jean knew he was starting to sound jumpy. Deliberately, he made his tone relaxed and comedic again. “I guess I didn't want to assume anything, since I'm still a guest around these parts.”

Danielle smiled, holding out the bowl. “Nonsense, dear. You're already home where you feel loved.”

For the second time in his life, Jean stared into warm, happy brown eyes and absolutely could not speak. He waited several long seconds before shaking himself out of his whirling thoughts, using the moments it took to retrieve a cherry and eat it to untangle his mind. _If I didn't already know she was Marco's mom..._ He shook his head, amused, then wondered if he ought to continue their dialogue.

“Uh... Um, my mother also used to paint. A long time ago,” Jean offered the first thing that came to mind after he'd deposited the cherry pit into a waste bin.

“You don't say.” Danielle got an excited gleam in her eye. “I would absolutely love to talk to her, you know, as one artist to another. Definitely just talking about art between us. Could I have her number?”

Jean, suddenly doubtful of the fact that Danielle would want to stick to non-embarrassing topics like painting, nevertheless withdrew his cell from his pocket. “Sure, I'll look it up. She just got a new phone, so I haven't quite memorized the number yet...”

Jean trailed off as he woke his screen, and his eyes widened as the first thing to appear was the very number he was looking for.

_Oh, right. Shit_. Jean realized he'd completely forgotten about the missed call from yesterday due to his mind-numbing elation after leaving Marco's house. Now his phone blinked at him with the “new voicemail” icon, and something told him his mother wouldn't call if it weren't particularly urgent.

“Sorry, Danielle,” he said after reading off the number and having her write it down on a note, “I just realized that I actually need to call my mom back for something, if that's alright; I wouldn't do it now if it weren't important, just—”

Marco's mother raised a hand and laughed. “Go ahead.” Then she turned to Marco and ruffled his hair, murmuring something to him happily.

Jean smiled. Stepping toward the room's edge, he pressed the button to return his mom's call, not bothering to listen to the voice message. Whatever it was, she could just explain it to him again, right?

“Hello?”

“Hey Mom. What's going on?”

“Hi sweetie!” She sounded like she was in a good mood. “So have you started getting ready?”

Jean's brow furrowed. “Ready for what?”

His mother huffed a little. “Did you not listen to my voicemail? Honestly, Jean. You should have returned my call earlier, now there's less time for you to pack.”

“ _Pack?_ ” Jean asked, his voice hitching a little unpleasantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marco look away from speaking softly to Danielle.

“Yes! I told you in the message, your aunt's patient Melissa mentioned an internship opening at her brokerage, and it could definitely lead to a paid position! She also offered to give you pointers for your actuarial exam... But she wants you back here to start in a week, so—”

“Wait.” Jean shook his head, face darkening. “You want me back in a week?”

Marco, hearing the increased strain in Jean's voice, made his way to stand beside him.

“Well, less than that; the best available flight I could get you was leaving on Friday from Venice, so I suppose you'll have to catch a train out Thursday evening if you hope to make it. I hope that's alright.”

Jean blanched. “Three days?” _I'm supposed to have three weeks!_ he thought desperately, looking into Marco's eyes. His boyfriend's brows drew together, as if he was holding back a pained expression, but then he seemed to actively push the distress away and focus his sympathy on Jean. Marco took Jean's free hand in both of his own, squeezing it soothingly.

While the action should have calmed Jean somewhat, it only made his heart ache more. He directed his agitated attention back to the phone. “No... No, Mom, that's not alright!”

His mother paused. “Why not?”

Jean stared at Marco. “I want to stay here.”

“Oh, for how long Jean? You might as well come back sooner rather than later—”

“No, Mom listen, I—I want to make Cortona my home. I can't leave in three days.”

When his mother spoke again, her tone was incredibly stern. “Jean, I thought you were past spending your time skimming through life on some pleasure trip. You said this was to help figure your future out.” She sighed tiredly. “Look, you can and you will come home for this very important opportunity; I'm sure you're having fun dillydallying in Italy, but we don't want this turn out like when you were 16 again, hm?”

With those words, Jean's thoughts were paralyzed with loathing, directed both at her and his past self. Was that how she still thought of him? Some sixteen-year-old skating by on his family's wealth, not applying himself to anything until his parents began to actively cut him off? If he was accurately interpreting what she was threatening, then she was ready to leave him stranded, an undocumented immigrant, in Italy, with only the euros he had on his person to take care of himself, let alone get himself stateside and arrange for a visa and apply for a permit of stay and—

There was no way. “Mom.”

“It's for your own good, Jean. So please, get ready to fly back, okay? I'll talk to you soon. Love you.”

The call disconnected.

Jean broke his gaze away from the ground to stare emptily at Marco. _Three days._

“That was your mother?” Danielle asked.

“Yes.”

Marco spoke to his mother as he gripped Jean's hand tighter. “I think that she wants him to leave Cortona.”

Jean added on, his voice blank, “There's some job opening. Only available flight. Three days.”

“He'd have to go back eventually, but...” Marco let his voice drift off as he gazed at Jean with worry.

Danielle seemed to understand. “But not like this?”

Marco nodded. He visibly struggled to put up a strong front, but couldn't help it when his lip trembled, and that sight was not something Jean could handle. He cleared his throat.

“Marco...” He carded his fingers through dark hair, speaking to him lowly. “Please don't worry. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, Jean, just a surprise,” Marco tried to respond, but his voice cracked partway through.

Suddenly, Jean felt sick. The word _unfair_ flashed through his mind. “I'm sorry—” he choked out, lurching backwards. “Marco, Danielle, I'm sorry—” Jean darted out of the doorway, heartbeat pounding in his ears. He probably _shouldn't_ be alone right then but, fuck, he _needed_ to be alone. He needed to run, and push all of these thoughts away, and to keep himself from breaking something like he would have when he was 16.

Jean ran as far as he could without stopping, which turned out to be... the top of Cortona. He realized with a jolt that he'd ended up at Marco's lookout. That was almost the entire height of Cortona's hill.

Collapsing to the ground, Jean stared blankly toward the horizon. He tried to block out his head and only focus on the real ache of his tired legs, his raw lungs, his rasping throat... his burning eyes.

Slowly, the sky dimmed. Afternoon slid coldly into evening. And Marco found Jean.

Jean only slightly shifted his gaze when he heard the crunch of rocks nearby. “Hey.”

Marco sat next to Jean. Gently, his fingers brushed Jean's cheek, but any tears he might have wiped away had now dried.

Jean swallowed. “She said I'd be coming home, Marco. But she just made me realize how I want to stay here. With y—Marco?!” In that moment, Jean had raised his eyes fully to meet Marco's gaze, and was shocked as he noticed the bright red rim around those lovely honey eyes.

Marco let out a thin, fraying laugh. “I came out to my father.”

Jean took Marco's face in his hands, alarmed. “Why?”

Marco's sight listed downward. “I wanted to ask not to work for the next three days, and when he asked why...” Marco's eyes came back up. “I said I wanted to have time with the man I love.”

Jean bit his lip as he pulled Marco closer to him. “Marco, God, that was so brave of you. You didn't have to... Just because...”

Marco's shoulders trembled within Jean's arms. “He.” Marco hiccuped a bit. “He asked.” Marco tucked his head further into the crook of Jean's neck. “He asked why... 'Perché non puoi essere normale?'”

Jean cupped the back of Marco's head with one hand, fingers sliding gently along his scalp, the other hand rubbing repetitively up and down his back. He got the idea of Marco's words despite his Italian still being rusty. “Marco,” he whispered. This was why he needed to stay, why he couldn't leave yet; he and Marco were just beginning, he needed to be there for Marco, to support him... But no, he was here now. Jean shook his head and shuffled Marco further into his embrace. “...I love you so much. And your father will learn. He'll realize you're still his son, the same one he raised, and that you need him. He's got to know that you're incredible, and perfect, and sweet and amazing—” Jean cut himself off, opting to drop small kisses onto the crown of Marco's head.

A little unexpectedly, Marco again quietly chuckled. “I know, Jean. I... He will realize. I think part of him understood, already.” Marco leaned back a little to look Jean in the eyes. “He gave me the days.”

Jean stared across at Marco's watery smile. So it was all on the table, then. With this thought in mind, Jean leaned forward and pressed his lips against Marco's in a single, prolonged kiss. He made sure it went slowly, achingly so; he wanted to make clear, to convey a sort of depth of affection in that instant on the level of two stars, ponderous in their interwoven orbits, forever bound to move and dance together.

Their lips separated several long moments later. “So, Marco,” Jean spoke into the quiet air. “I think we can plan a pretty great three days. We are in the best place in the world, right?”

Marco smiled, and this time it was full of brightness. “Of course.”

–

They spent Tuesday with Marco pointing out all his favorite places in Cortona—the ones he hadn't shown Jean yet, anyway. He covered strange quirks of his town, like the barred up doorways from medieval times, the neon-lit bust of the Madonna, the tiny terracotta Roman soldier hidden away in a seemingly random alleyway, the painted-on window that included a motionless cat gazing down at passersby; Jean insisted they take pictures with everything, striking the same ridiculous poses as the statues or squeezing their faces as close together as possible in the frame of the image. Marco laughed with each photo, and Jean committed the sound to memory in all its variations.

Jean realized that he passed Danielle in the streets quite often, now that he knew how to recognize her; she was always talking to someone, seeming distracted, and Marco mentioned that she was particularly busy now as she needed to cover for him at La Fett'unta while also running her business.

Their dinner consisted of a picnic at the lookout, taking sips of wine and feeding each other pieces of the sandwiches and cookies they'd packed.

On Wednesday, they had planned to take a long walk to La Celle, a beautiful monastery about an hour's distance from the heart of Cortona. However, it began pouring rain right as Jean arrived at Marco's doorstep.

Instead, they spent the entire day lounging in Marco's room—which lied at the top of the staircase Jean had glimpsed when they last did laundry—huddled under sheets, whispering, occasionally dozing off in the secure warmth of their cocoon. At first Jean had woken up, upset, not wanting to waste a single minute of the time he still had with Marco. Marco insisted that resting peacefully with Jean was one of the things he wanted to do most in the world, though. And so the hours passed; even as dusk fell and the rain finally let up, they stayed curled together, watching swallows dart across the single patch of sky visible through Marco's window. Jean was practically certain that his fingertips had memorized the contours of Marco's face by the end of the day.

Thursday, Jean and Marco walked to a fruit stand along Via Nazionale, bought a whole cantaloupe, then returned to Marco's house to cut it in half. Taking the halves as well as two spoons, they walked up to the university dorms and sat in their grassy shade, greeting students who would come to sit with them between classes. They worked their way through the fresh melon slowly, often feeding each other carved spoonfuls just to see the other's lips close around the silver utensil. All of the students' friendly antics helped the pair forget, for a while, what would come that evening, whether it was Ymir's bantering with Reiner; Annie's quiet display of the ceramic flowers that she'd been crafting; Armin's explanation of recent art historical debates; or especially, Connie and Sasha's energetic urges for the two to discuss their "dream life."

“Come on, you two, tell us about what you'd do if you could do whatever you wanted!”

“What's the use of that?” Jean questioned with a scowl, digging the last of the sweet flesh of his cantaloupe into his spoon.

“It's fun!” Sasha supplied. “And it gives you something to look forward to. I mean, it's not like tonight is _goodbye-_ goodbye, right?”

Jean gulped, and nodded at Marco. “Alright... If I could, I'd want to draw you. I mean, try to. I don't know if it would end up looking like you. Uh.” Jean cleared his throat awkwardly.

Marco actually snickered. “I would enjoy seeing what you drew. I am sure it would be very... earnest.” Connie, Sasha, and Marco all laughed at that, before Marco took a moment to consider. “If I could... I would want to... to bake with you! We could make my mother's best cannoli together, you would love it.”

“Sounds good to me!” Sasha commented, elbowing Jean. “If you need a taste-tester, I think you know who to call.”

“Mikasa, right?” Jean replied, deadpan.

“Jeaaaaaan!”

They continued on like this, well into the afternoon and even over dinner; Jean wanted to fall asleep while watching a movie with Marco. Marco wanted to talk about his favorite book with Jean. Jean wanted to go camping with Marco; Marco wanted to go to the zoo with Jean. They wanted to ski together, to pick grapes; to sing karaoke, kiss in the rain, write letters, paint the walls of a room; to dance at a discotheque, to celebrate New Year's, to buy each other birthday presents.

Jean wanted Marco to come to his hometown, truthfully, to meet his family because he knew in some way that they did basically care about him. Then he wanted to swing Marco onto his motorbike and take off down the highway, travel across the country for days on end.

“That sounds wonderful, Jean,” Marco murmured as they walked slowly back to Jean's hostel. “I'm sure it would be incredible to see your home together. Someday.”

Jean hummed his agreement, twining his fingers with Marco's as they made their way farther down the cobblestone street.

All too soon, they were at the door of the hostel, and knew that this was where they parted ways. A cab would be here shortly to take Jean down to Camucia's train station; they'd decided together that it would be best if Marco could say his goodbye here, and then immediately go to his family and seek their company.

The two of them stared at each other, tense, and Jean decided to stall a bit longer. “Wait here,” he told Marco as he ran up to his room and dragged his bags down to the street.

Standing there with the suitcases, everything pressed a little more heavily on the two. They sat on the hostel's step, hands clasped together, Jean's head resting warmly on Marco's shoulder.

The cab rolled up the street not too long after. Solemnly, they loaded Jean's bags into the trunk, before both of them headed to the open passenger door.

A silence passed between them. Then, Jean held Marco tightly to him. “I'll miss you.”

Marco returned the embrace equally, head turned close to Jean's ear. “Sarai nel mio cuore,” he breathed quietly.

Jean sniffed, and Marco pressed a careful kiss to his lips; Jean wondered when he'd be able to do so in person again.

Marco rested his forehead against Jean's, smiling gently. “You're making me sad, Principe.”

To that, Jean let out the smallest huff of air, as close as he could get to a laugh right now. “Oh, the beauty and drama of our predicament,” he replied flatly.

That got a real laugh from Marco, and Jean felt that if he could ever get into the cab, it would be at that moment. “Skype me?” he asked, as he slid into the seat.

“Of course. A presto, Jean,” Marco said sweetly.

Jean closed the door of the cab, and Marco stepped away, raising his hand to wave. The engine started up. Jean turned to shoot another confident, reassuring grin at Marco, at the same time wanting to burn that fond, freckled face into his mind's eye.

And Mina came running up the street.

“Wait!”

Marco turned to her, and Jean rolled down his window with a furrowed brow.

“Wait!” she called again. “Jean can stay!” She reached the cab, panting with her hands on her knees, and then lifted her face to the group again. “Mamma sent me to say, she talked to Jean's mother, and he can stay. He can stay in Cortona for the summer!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH I'M SO SORRY I BETRAYED YOU ALL
> 
> LIKE, PEOPLE COME TO THIS FIC FOR FLUFF AND I JUST
> 
> OH OH GOD
> 
> sorryyy
> 
> b-but I didn't leave it sad for long, right? rigHT?? 
> 
> Haha, really though, my constitution is so weak when it comes to feels; this is nothing compared to some of the other amazing fics out there and their nicely balanced angst, but still I just, ah, I can't handle this. 
> 
> Um... I hope all the Italian sounded right in this again. And that there aren't too many typos.
> 
> Anyway, thank you if you're still reading, haha~ I hope you liked the chapter, somehow!
> 
> And.... [glances around suspiciously]. I _too_ have a [tumblr](http://angels-in-your-angles.tumblr.com). Also I figured out how to embed links, hell yeah. (omfg it's so easy why didn't I do this earlier)


	8. Grazie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew... Um... Okay, just gotta do this with a list, right?
> 
> 1\. [[SCREAMING BECAUSE PRETTY GORGEOUS FANART]](http://enjouji.tumblr.com/post/77515066269/in-that-exact-millisecond-when-hed-stood-he-and) I'm just... okay, I'm going to try and act calmer about this than I really feel. Ohhhhhh man. Just. [high-pitched noises.] It's like Phix's art is the conceptual movie poster, and enjouji's is the film still, and together it's like people are making Benvenuto _real_ and I just asljglasdhsgfjkd (also-also look at lemonorangelime's [teeny marco](http://lemonorangelime.tumblr.com/post/77139102272/so-1-aah-your-art-is-so-cute-2-your-marco-i-exactly) eeeeeeeee)
> 
> 2\. ????? We passed 500 kudos? ??? ?? ?????? I cannot believe. I want to talk to each and every one of you. [Come talk to me on tumblr!](http://angels-in-your-angles.tumblr.com) Or feel free to comment here. :)
> 
> 3\. Thank you so so much for reading and enjoying! I'm not going to lie, Benvenuto turned into more than I thought it would. I'm really happy it did.
> 
> 4\. Apologies for typos~ ...and lots of em dashes. 
> 
> 5\. OH I ALMOST FORGOT WHILE I HAVE YOU ALL AS MY CAPTIVE AUDIENCE, wanna hear a joke?
> 
> Okay so what do you call a snobbish criminal going down stairs?  
> A condescending con descending!
> 
> Okay sorry I'll be quiet go read now

“I... can stay?”

Jean's sight shot over to Marco, whose gaze met his at the same instant. And it was like Jean was seeing him for the first time in his life. He noticed everything about Marco as if it were brand new, because all at once Marco was _his_ again: Jean could still have his sturdy frame and his gentle hands and his stunned, slack lips and—and his gorgeous warm lovely amazing overbright eyes—

The cab door flew open as Jean flung himself into Marco's waiting arms. They crushed themselves together almost painfully, and as Jean burrowed his head into the crook of Marco's neck, he couldn't help the jittery chuckles that bubbled out of his mouth.

“Y-you can stay,” Marco hiccuped through his mix of laughter and near-sobs against the top of Jean's head. “You can _stay_ —”

Marco's voice was so beautiful, _Marco_ was so beautiful that yeah, no, they definitely needed to be kissing and not talking right now. Jean was on that.

“...Um.” Mina's voice floated over to them after a brief amount of time. Jean wasn't exactly sure how much. He pulled away from Marco's lips and blushed, even as he smiled contentedly toward Marco's sister. “I think I'm going to go back and uh, leave you two be. Um. I'll. I'll let Mamma know that I caught you in time. Uh.” She cleared her throat. Jean vaguely noted how her face was scarlet. “Sh-she wanted you both to come speak with her at the gallery, though, so. I would. Er. Go there. When you're done.”

“Oh. Thank you, Mina.” Marco's voice only shook slightly. “So much.”

Jean nodded his agreement. “We'll be there as soon as possible.”

Mina gulped. “Right. Okay.” Then she had skittered off, still flushing a deep red.

Since the lovebirds had paused anyway, Jean took that moment to extricate himself fully from Marco's arms and apologize to the cabbie, paying extra for any inconvenience. He proceeded to remove his luggage from the trunk, and as the taxi rolled away, Jean and Marco were once more secluded in the middle of the street.

“I can't believe it,” Jean murmured, stepping back into Marco's space.

Marco swallowed and nodded. His hands came up to rest reverently around Jean's face, and he pressed a slow, careful kiss to his lips.

“I—I mean,” Jean stuttered, “even if it is only two—two and a half?—more weeks, it's still...” Words ran through his mind, but he couldn't settle on any single one as he gazed into Marco's eyes.

“I know,” Marco answered anyway.

Jean choked, as his throat abruptly felt thick and knotted, and before anything that might resemble a keening cry could escape his mouth he made sure to seal it against Marco's. He washed away the residual ache in his chest with Marco's lips and love. Marco seemed to be doing the same, and even though Jean felt wetness against his cheeks, he didn't worry. Marco was smiling against his lips; his joyous laughter slipped out through the gaps between their shifting mouths.

They stay joined like that, kissing at first with desperation and then, gradually, with excitement and gratitude, until Marco ended up stumbling into Jean's suitcase.

“Woops.” Marco chuckled. “Should we, ah, take this inside?”

Jean stared perplexedly at Marco, before his eyes widened. “Oh! Y-you mean the luggage. Yeah. Yes. Um. And then we should head to your mom's, I guess. Yeah.”

Marco laughed brightly again, already hefting one bag into his grip.

–-

“ _Mamma_ ,” Marco breathed, rushing into the gallery and enveloping his mother in a hug. “Grazie. Grazie mille.”

Danielle sighed happily and patted her son's back. “La luna e le stelle per te, mio caro.”

Marco's shoulders tensed, then slowly relaxed, and he stepped away from Danielle with a look of total gratitude.

Jean knew his thanks wouldn't be nearly as graceful, but moved forward regardless. “I don't know how you got my mom to change her mind, but whatever happened, you're an actual force of nature.” Hesitantly, he clasped both of his hands around Danielle's. “Thank you _so much_.”

Danielle just grinned, amused and proud. “Naturally, dear.” Slipping her hands from Jean's, she gave them a similar loving pat before leaning back against her counter. “What did you expect?”

Jean met her sparkling, vital gaze, and in that instant believed totally in her ability to move mountains.

“Really, though, we did what any sensible businesswomen would do,” Danielle continued. “We made a deal.”

Jean's brows lowered in confusion, but his expression lost some tension when Marco threaded his fingers between his own.

“Basically,” she explained, “your mother is much more concerned about your career as an accountant, I believe. Whereas I've been informed,” and she grinned at Marco, “that you might feel more passionate about expressing yourself through writing. And you and Marco wanted more time together. So.” Danielle drummed her fingers against the counter's surface, looking between the two young men. “Jean must work for pay for the remainder of his time here. He also _must_ go back to finish his final year at his university, which I was expecting of you anyway. You'll get that degree you've been working toward, and... Well,” Danielle gave Jean a sympathetic gaze, “You might need that time to truly decide where you want to spend your life. In exchange, you can stay for the rest of the summer. Sound like a good deal?”

Jean was shaking his head, mostly out of astounded confusion. “Of course,” he answered. “But how will I work for pay here?”

Danielle's smile grew. “With me! I've been laying the groundwork for... a new business venture, let's say. And I'll need your academic advice on some of the financial matters.”

Jean stared at her in awe, turning to gape at Marco before facing Danielle again. “I don't know what to say.” He looked down at where Marco's hand clasped his own, and when Jean spoke again, there was a hoarse strain to his voice. “Just. Thank you.”

“Honestly, I had to do something,” Danielle chuckled. “Now stop being so doom-and-gloom, you two should be out together. I know!” she said, face bright with enthusiasm. “Take my son out on a date. Go get gelato!” Danielle pushed the two boys toward the door. “And you better show him a good time!”

“I definitely will, Danie—” but before Jean could finish his sentence, he and Marco had been urged outside and into the street. He turned to Marco, entirely bewildered. “Um... so. Gelato?”

Marco blinked, then shrugged and replied, “That would be good. I am hungry, some. ...Er. How long will you stare?”

Jean jolted a little, still working through this evening's stunning events. It made Marco chuckle.

And that just made Jean love him more. “Your family is awesome,” he laughed as he pressed a quick kiss to Marco's cheek, then started to lead them toward the nearest gelateria he knew of.

They ended up at a smaller shop, where the display of gelato was less ornate than others but no less appealing to those in need of a cold treat. Jean fished out a few euros to pay for his and Marco's cones. As they started working away at their frozen desserts, the two young men strolled through the town's narrow streets and its accompanying nighttime crowd.

“So...” Jean eyed Marco's pink heap of dessert. “I never did ask, but does 'fragola' mean 'strawberry' or 'watermelon?' You did say once that it was your favorite.”

Marco grinned like he always did when Jean remembered some small fact about him. “Strawberry.” He then hummed as he savored the taste of his last bite.

“Huh.” Jean took a lick of his own—a special flavor, dark chocolate with orange hints. “Looks pretty good.”

Marco grinned and held the cone toward Jean. “Want to try some?”

“You're just gonna offer it up like that?” Jean asked with a smirk. “Well, okay!” Slowing down their walk, Jean leaned down to taste Marco's gelato, before realizing he had a golden opportunity. He grinned, then brushed his lips over Marco's knuckles, finally coming up to take his lick of strawberry.

Marco actually squeaked a little at the move. “How... how is it?” he asked with a flush.

Jean smiled, licking his lips. “Delicious.”

Marco stared at Jean, eyes wide... before his expression turned into one of disappointment. “You are very cheesy _._ ”

Jean's mouth fell open. “... _I'm_ cheesy? You're the one who sang acoustic love songs to me! _In Italian!_ ”

Marco laughed and took another bite of his gelato. “You kissed me without a shirt, even though we had clothing all around us.”

Jean spluttered. “Y-you didn't say I could _wear_ any of it! F-fine, you know what,” Jean gulped down more of his dessert. “You can't try any of my gelato!”

“Aw, Principe,” Marco jokingly whined, “please?”

Jean held the cone above his head, away from Marco. “No.”

“Can I at least kiss you?” Marco asked, biting his lip while trying not to grin too widely.

“...Fine,” Jean answered, because when it came down to it there was no way he would ever refuse a kiss from Marco. Each one from him—and just from him, not one started by Jean and picked up by Marco or ones that they leaned into together—was special, always gentle and affectionate—

Marco crushed his mouth against Jean's, immediately slipping in his tongue when Jean's lips opened in surprise.

Jean registered some feelings of shock at how intense Marco made the kiss, glad that there weren't too many people milling around, before getting lost in it a little. God, Marco tasted so sweet... There was cold strawberry, but also something milder and _hot_ and slick.

Marco pulled away much, much too soon. He gave Jean a breathless, pleased little smile. “I got to taste it after all.”

Jean just faced Marco vacantly... before taking another lick of his gelato, tugging Marco down an alley, and proceeding to let the other have a very thorough taste.

–-

The following morning marked the beginning of Jean's collaboration with Danielle, and the discussion of her newest business endeavor. Jean had to admit, her idea was both sensible and innovative enough to have some serious potential. He was excited to talk to Marco about it, but Danielle insisted he keep the plan under wraps until the details were more concrete, closer to realization.

Jean could only tell Marco so much, then, as he worked alongside him at La Fett'unta. That had been another part of his workload; Jean reasoned that the consultation he did with Danielle was not enough to earn his stay in Cortona, so he began to assist with simple tasks around the restaurant. His limited Italian restricted him to more basic jobs, like busing food around, washing dishes, or taking stock of their plethora of ingredients. Nonetheless, he was happy to help. As long as he could graze Marco's hand when they wove around each other in the close quarters of the pantry, or if he could sidle up behind the other when they were alone behind the register, Jean would be infinitely grateful to Danielle and, possibly, to Signore Bodt.

Signore Bodt. Marco's father. He was... difficult for Jean to interact with, in a way. On the one hand, their mutual inability to speak the other's language left their conversations short and to the point. More than that, though, was the way Jean could feel tension rolling off of the father-son duo when left alone with each other for too long.

Jean wasn't sure if there was anything at all he could do to improve that situation, as much as he wanted to. At least Signore Bodt seemed to appreciate his ability to buckle down and do hard work. Still, every atom in Jean's being wanted him to soothe the worried look that occasionally cropped up on Marco's face, but contact like what he had in mind probably wasn't the best option right now in front of the chef himself. The circumstance made Jean frustrated enough that he thought of it almost constantly in his first few days as an employee.

He thought of how he just wanted to protect Marco. He wanted to guard his happiness, and guard him, because Marco and his smiles were a precious gift in his life. He wanted to show how thankful he was for finally, finally having someone who made him simultaneously feel giddy with praise and devotion, but also completely comfortable with their profound trust and understanding of one another.

Jean was thinking of how ready he was to show Marco the extent of his adoration when he got a small, glowing idea.

That afternoon, he asked Mina to take an “ingredient run” with him to the nearby grocery store. It was only once they were a good minute past their purported destination that Mina looked at Jean questioningly.

“We're not buying more pesto sauce, are we?” she asked with a small smile.

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “No. I, uh. I need you to be my translator for a bit.”

–-

Ten days passed, and all things considered they were some of the best days of Jean's life. It was like a taste of a future he couldn't have even dreamed of, before this summer. Still, this point marked the start of his final week of vacation. In seven days time, he'd be flying home to finish his last academic year in the States.

Fortunately, Jean and Marco were given this day—a Sunday—off work. They were both aware of what the date marked, of how limited their time was as far as the near future, and Jean realized before he arrived at Marco's door exactly where he wanted to go during this small break.

“Let's go back to the sunflower field, okay, Marco?”

Warm, brown eyes considered him, perhaps taken off guard by these words spoken so quickly after their reuniting kiss. “Well... the same field will probably not be blooming, but we could go to a different one, maybe. One that, ah, opened later?”

Jean nodded vigorously. “That would be great. Even better, really. Remember how we came up short of having a really nice time in the last one?” he asked, eyebrows waggling at the recollection.

Marco laughed. “I think we had a wonderful time. But okay, going to one again would of course be welcome.”

Their drive down the hillside of Cortona felt shorter this time. Jean wasn't certain if that was because the field itself was a closer one, or because his thoughts were drastically more energetic as he swept his thumb over the back of Marco's free hand.

They talked along the way about the upcoming week, like the student art show that the university would hold in a few days, as well as the rumored plans for some kind of wild birthday party happening next Saturday. It would be a busy string of days, but before then, there was this brief respite. Jean and Marco agreed on their appreciation of Sundays as the car slowed next to a bursting sunflower field.

“Don't run off on me this time,” Jean huffed. Marco chuckled back at him, but made sure to slip his hand into Jean's as soon as they took their first few steps into the flowers.

“H-hey, Marco, um... I've got to ask,” Jean started out nervously as they brushed by stalk after stalk. He glanced over at Marco's open, curious face, before snapping his eyes forward again. “We said we loved each other for the first time two weeks ago. B-but, um. When did you first, you know, _think_ that you loved me?”

Marco let out a startled little sound, and his freckles stood out against cheeks warmed with a dusky blush. It was incredibly cute; Jean knocked his shoulder fondly against Marco's, already smiling uncontrollably wide.

“Ah... I, I mean, I think you have words for the feeling. 'Love'... 'Love at first sight?' You, simply... I saw your eyes, and I felt... deep. A deep need to know you.”

Jean pressed his lips together, trying to stay neutral and probably failing to hold in his ecstatic surprise.

Marco let out a bashful, breathy laugh. “If not that time, then I knew very certainly I loved you when we went to the top of Cortona. You were a part of my home, then.”

Jean ducked his head, attempting to hide his shaking happiness at hearing Marco's words. It took him several prolonged moments before he gathered his breath and replied, “It was here. For me. Well, not here specifically, but uh, I think I started to love you the last time we were in a field like this.”

Marco's gaze slid over to Jean. “It was a very beautiful moment,” he offered. He then scanned his eyes over the cheerful, radiant blooms surrounding them. “The flowers are so magnificent.”

“They're not the only things,” Jean mumbled. Then, he said more clearly, “Marco, I—I was thinking about the sunflowers, and uh. Um.” Jean trailed off. He knew what he wanted to talk about, but couldn't quite get the words out. They were at once too weighty, and too glib; no expression could be enough. Jean wanted to explain how the flowers meant 'loyalty,' 'faithfulness,' and 'devotion' and how even though he'd have to leave soon and they'd be apart...

Marco gazed calmly to his side. They had stopped walking. “Yes, Jean?”

The young man swallowed. Then he pulled two rings from his pocket.

He quickly dove into a harried explanation: “They're not, like, engagement rings or anything; j-just promise rings, kind of, ohmygodit'ssostupidbut um, I—I asked to have them engraved with sunflowers—” And this part Jean was secretly very happy with, as the tiny image of one flower on each gold band had turned out delicately perfect. Still, it didn't mean he wasn't nervous presenting the rings to Marco. “—a-and just, because sunflowers follow the sun all day every day, and you're. You're k-kind of like my sun. I thought these could show. Um. That I'll be yours. I'll adore you like the sun.”

Marco had moved one hand up to cover his mouth, lips trembling. His eyes were glued to the rings. “J... Jean...” With his other hand, he traced quaking fingers over the surface of one band. His eyes lifted to meet Jean's, and the latter was floored when he realized Marco, just barely, was crying.

“They're...” Marco managed. Then, he beamed dazzlingly at Jean. “Perfect.”

Jean was left breathless momentarily. Finally, he swallowed and shifted his grip so that he could slide one ring onto Marco's finger.

“This means,” Jean said haltingly, for once glad that his words unfailingly reflected his emotions, “that we'll think of each other as long as the sun is in the sky. A-and we'll wait for each other. And then, one day, after we've reached and worked for it... we'll be together.”

Marco nodded, brows drawn tight as he in turn slid a ring on Jean's finger. Once it was in place, he brought Jean's hand up to his lips, pressing a slow, thoughtful kiss to the metal band.

“Grazie di tutto, Jean,” Marco whispered, nuzzling the ring.

Jean pressed forward and kissed Marco, shaking his head and smiling. With all his whirling emotions, he was full to bursting with excitement and yet all he could think to say was, “I'm happy you like it.”

Marco exhaled an incredulous, happy gust of air, apparently understanding Jean's exact conflict. There was so much to say, but how do you say it?

Before long, Marco just laughed and dipped his head forward.

“H-hey what are you—?” Jean chuckled, even as he tried to duck away.

But Marco's embrace drew him in, and there was no way he could escape being peppered with grateful, delighted kisses.

So Jean resigned himself to standing there, running his thumb over the cool circle of the ring on his finger, and thinking that he might not know what his future held but he could be happy forever in Marco's arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just because someone asked, I think we're looking at.... one more chapter. :')


	9. Calmati

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, everyone! Erm,
> 
> 1\. Did you ask for beautiful sunflower a fanart? GREAT. Have a look at [this](http://gonnagetnaked.tumblr.com/post/81399159991/angels-in-your-angles-gonnagetnaked-this) adorable still from Benvenuto: The Movie, and [this](http://irishamrock.tumblr.com/post/77752081233/i-just-love-to-draw-pictures-inspired-by) lovely cover for the soundtrack album, and [this](http://longlivekrissi.tumblr.com/post/81350837826/jebus-this-took-me-5ever-since-idk-how-to) excerpt from Benven: The Graphic Novel. Dear wizard god, bless the rains and bless these artists~
> 
> 2\. I'm just gonna say now, I'm way more of a oneshot writer and this is actually the first more-than-two-part fic I've ever finished. So expect some Benvenuto-verse onshots once this is all done!
> 
> 3\. Sorry about typos. And I hope the Italian from here on out is correct...
> 
> 4\. Thank you for reading! ;A; Can I bake cookies with you all and tell dumb cheesy jokes? oh oH WAIT I HEARD A NEW ONE THAT I REALLY LIKE:
> 
> How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?  
> Ten-tickles!
> 
> 5\. Heh okay I'll stop. Please enjoy. And spread some love for these dorks!

“Jean... We should get out of the car.”

“Hmm,” Jean considered the remark. He even undertook the colossal effort of lifting his head from where it was nestled in the juncture of Marco's neck and shoulder. “...Nah,” he eventually decided, returning to his previous nuzzling position.

Despite the fact that they'd been like this for the past ten minutes, Jean was completely content to remain as they were: Marco sat with his legs across Jean's lap, his back half against the passenger car door and half against Jean's chest. Jean's arms still encircled Marco like they had when Jean first tugged him out of the driver's seat. The only movement that had taken place since this shuffle was the calming, repetitive slide of Marco's fingers gently up Jean's forearm, across the back of his hand, over the smooth surface of his ring, and back down to his elbow.

Their minds still lingered in the fields outside town even though they'd now returned to Cortona's car lot. Jean and Marco were quiet, mostly, listening to the muted sounds of the world outside the car windows as their thoughts drifted.

One thought in particular had occurred to Jean, and even though he really, _truly_ did not want to disrupt the peaceful air between them, he couldn't mute the vague anxiety caused by this particular question. “Marco,” he eventually mumbled, voice unconvincingly casual, “do you ever get scared thinking, what if I had never run into you that day?”

Marco made a confused noise.

“You know,” Jean elaborated, “that day with the tomatoes?”

“Ahh.” Marco shifted, turning his head just enough so that his lips brushed Jean's hair as he replied, “No, I do not.”

Jean flinched a little. “Really?”

“No, because...” Marco hummed thoughtfully. “It will be okay. If we did not meet then, I am certain we would talk the next day, at Tonino's. Or maybe after that, somehow, at La Fett'unta or in the park, or maybe not even in Cortona. It would happen, though, always.” Marco leaned so that Jean could see his steady, sure smile more clearly. “We were meant to meet each other, Jean.” His voice grew softer as he concluded, “Sometimes you need to trust that things will be okay.”

Jean stared up toward Marco, mouth hanging open. He proceeded to squeeze his arms tightly around his boyfriend's middle while burrowing his face into its original hiding spot. “Let's _never_ get out of this car,” he pleaded. “Let's just live in here for fifty years, and sleep in the trunk, and eat at drive-throughs every day.”

Marco laughed, although he sounded a bit on edge when he questioned, “...'Drive-throughs?'”

Jean nodded, his hair tickling Marco's neck.

“I am not sure I like the idea of this kind of food, Principe.” Carefully, he grasped Jean's hands and pulled them away from himself. “We should get a good, real dinner now. Come on,” he chuckled.

Jean huffed. “ _Fine_.” With a groan, Jean loosened his koala-like grip on Marco and followed his boyfriend through the streets of his home.

–-

The two planned to stop by Marco's house before eating, unsure if they wanted to attempt cooking dinner or invite Marco's family to eat out. They had barely made it inside the house, though, when Danielle poked her head out from the kitchen. “Welcome home, boys!” The young men called their thanks as she shuffled down the hallway. “Marco, I left work a few minutes before your father, so he and Mina should be home soo—Oh, what's this?” Ever perceptive, her eyes had landed on the golden ring still bright on Marco's hand.

He went a little pink. “It is a gift from Jean.”

“Yeah, I, uh,” Jean grasped for words. “I just wanted to tell Marco some important things before the end of the week.”

“Ah.” Danielle nodded. “Speaking of things Marco should hear, I don't believe we've shared our new business idea with him yet. Now would be a good time, right Jean?”

This caught him off-guard, but Jean recovered soon enough to gaze excitedly toward Marco. “Y-yeah, definitely!” Jean took Marco's hands in his own. He was a touch embarrassed by the fact that his fingers were shaking, but he couldn't help how incredible he found talking about what could be in Marco's future. “Your mother wants to expand La Fett'unta into a bed and breakfast. It's a great idea, because the location is so central, and demand is so high, but we'll also simplify by holding onto all the resources your family already has through the restaurant. I've just been helping her work out acquiring the rest of the space, and what to charge for each room... Things like that.”

Danielle picked up the explanation. “It will be wonderful, mio caro. I will handle bookkeeping, and if I feel like retiring one day, I am sure we both know someone ready to take care of money matters.” She glanced pointedly at Jean. “And then, you and your father will be the dazzling chefs—”

Marco, who had been actively listening in order to not be overwhelmed by the shared information, grew visibly troubled at the mention of his father. “Babbo has agreed to this plan?”

Danielle took in the shift in her son's demeanor with a frown. “Yes, Caro. You know I have talked to him every night about,” she hesitated, then said, “our family.” Danielle sighed and gave Marco a warm smile, placing one hand on his shoulder to press it lightly. “Your father may love tradition, but I can win him over. I've done it before.” She winked, and it managed to make Marco snicker.

“Now, you both have a very important job!” she continued. “Having a nice, catchy name that gets people interested will be vital. So, any amazing suggestions?”

Jean met Marco's eyes, and in tandem they both shook their heads. “We are hopeless,” Marco said with a bashful grin.

Danielle's bemused expression made Jean and Marco burst into laughter. The two of them would probably come up with ridiculously cheesy names, Jean was almost certain of that.

Danielle tried to quiet them. “Okay, okay, how about 'Casa Girasole?' It means Sunflower House,” she clarified at Jean's confused expression.

Blinking, Marco shivered slightly, and Jean was concerned until he saw the grin accompanying it and realized his boyfriend was actually shaking with enthusiasm. Marco's voice was tight as if he were restraining himself from talking both their ears off as he offered, “I think it should be about what people bring to Cortona. A vacation to our home is not much more than what the guest makes of it. Without that first gift, nothing else matters. So, then, maybe 'Casa del Tesoro' would be nice?”

Jean felt the tips of his ears go extremely hot as all the warmth of Marco's gaze seemed to pour into him. Did Marco think of him as his treasure?

However, he could not reply before a low voice rumbled through the doorway, “'Casa Bodt' is good. _We_ are Cortona.”

All gazes shot toward the source. Jean was frozen as his gaze met Signore Bodt's stern one. He only belatedly noticed Mina strolling up to join her father outside the threshold, swiping her cellphone off and apparently missing the conversation up to that point. She looked around the tense faces in confusion.

“Babbo...” she addressed her father, the slightest hint of disapproval there as she seemed to assess the atmosphere.

“It is our restaurant, our family—it should be our name.” The man's tone sounded tired and final.

Jean pressed his lips together nervously, not daring to speak. He felt Danielle's eyes on him, and then on Marco. “Boys,” she suggested, “why don't you go enjoy the nice weather with a walk now? I'm afraid we don't have much to cook here for dinner, either, but I'm sure you can find a nice restaurant for tonight.”

Marco took Jean's hand and tugged him back outside, carefully skirting around his father. “Okay, Mamma. We will be back later.”

“Bye,” Jean called hesitantly. Looking over his shoulder, he wondered if he imagined the uncertainty in Marco's father's eyes.

–-

Despite the rocky encounter on Sunday, things returned to a slippery equilibrium as the week went on. Soon enough, Jean and Marco were back to tousling each other's hair, fist-bumping so that their promise rings clicked together like the Wonder Twins', and trading slow, loving kisses in the cool shade of aged stone archways.

Wednesday afternoon marked the next interruption of their routine, though; that evening was the opening of the university students' art show, _Mostra_ , which would be on display through Friday. The exhibition was held every year at this time and allowed the students to showcase up to three pieces each that they'd created over the summer. The public of Cortona was always invited, but Jean and Marco received personal invitations from their friends among the students. At that point, Marco explained that while he would have gone regardless...

“Tonino's is catering. So I will be there working for the first hour.”

Jean may or may not have pouted, hearing that, as he'd started to entertain the idea of making it into a sort of “date night.” He told Marco as much as they walked away from the university campus to get ready. “We could dress up nice and everything, and act like we're some super fancy art critics while we look around...”

Marco chuckled at the description, then met Jean's gaze with a delighted smile. “I would love that!” He rubbed the tip of his nose nervously as he continued, “If you do not mind waiting for me to be done working, then I can find you and we will see the show together.” Marco spoke as if he weren't sure he could impose something like that on Jean, like the trivial request of putting off their date for an hour was some exhausting trial.

Jean stopped walking, taking a moment to just look at Marco. At this point in the street, his boyfriend stood in front of a vast overlook, the pink of the dusky sky behind him a perfect frame for the delicate flush in his cheeks.

Jean wondered how anyone could ever say no to a sight like that. “I can't wait to see you all done up,” he replied, grinning.

–-

Luckily, Sasha and Connie had pointed out the show location to Jean multiple times, making it easy enough for him to find the old building near the heart of town. He wondered what exactly it used to be; all he knew was that everyone now called it the Palazzo Vagnotti. Jean studied its interior after ascending marble steps through the entryway. The off white walls and simple chandeliers were dated, maybe, but that gave it a feeling of intimacy, balancing out the formality of the high barrel ceiling and checkerboard tiled floor. The building seemed to be made up of one long hallway, rooms branching off of it to hold more artwork.

And it was already packed. Counting on things running a little late anyway, Jean had shown up about twenty minutes after the designated opening time, and it looked like half of Cortona had turned out for the exhibition in that span. Jean started trying to wend his way through the crowd, when a familiar voice called for him.

“Buonasera! Don't you look handsome tonight,” Danielle greeted him.

Jean ran a hand self-consciously over the dark tie he'd picked out, hoping it actually managed to make his shirt and slacks look dressier. “Thank you. I hope Marco thinks so too.”

“Oh, I'm sure he will. He's a little busy with the buffet right now, though. In fact,” Danielle said, planting her hands on her hips and looking comically miffed, “all of my family seems to have run off.” She scanned the people around them as she must have been doing when she spotted Jean. She turned back to him with a sigh. “Well, Jean, care to escort your date's mother around while you wait on the man himself?”

Jean let out a small laugh, nodding his head. Danielle proceeded to slip her thin arm through Jean's elbow, and together they made their way around the show.

Jean wasn't surprised to see that the work was out of this world. Connie, Sasha, and the rest of the students had spent their two months' time in Italy productively, in the end, each with their own particular specialty. Jean and Danielle found themselves captivated by the abstractions of Bertholdt's photography; then, Jean was sucked in by some sick poster designs by Armin. Danielle absolutely melted over Reiner's marblework, and later, tugged Jean down to appreciate the intricacy of Christa's bookbinding.

After about half an hour of browsing, Jean still found the artwork completely mind blowing, but his interest couldn't help flagging as he started checking his watch over and over. Marco would be off work soon...

His heartbeat sped up when Jean caught sight of familiar dark hair and tall, broad shoulders; he almost stumbled, though, when he realized the figure across the room wasn't the one he was looking for, but his father. Signore Bodt appeared to be carefully considering a work in the corner farthest from the doorway where he and Danielle stood.

Danielle took notice as his attention tellingly slipped away. “Hmm, Jean,” she eventually broke him out of his thoughts. “Did I ever tell you about how Marco's father and I fell in love?”

Jean slowly shook his head, needing a moment to catch up both mentally and physically as Danielle began to lead him clockwise around the room.

Marco's mother smiled gently as she recalled a summer from years past. “He wasn't really one for being dramatic, but he liked being... 'classic.' And if that meant laying on the charm _thick_ , then he'd do it.” She laughed even as she shook her head. “He would do the silliest things—play love songs, write me poems... It's funny, how he and Marco are alike that way.” When Jean blushed and started stammering, she waved his words away with a grin. “We worked out, as you can see.”

Her gaze then drifted away, to where her husband still waited by the same collage. “He always has been a bit of a traditionalist, in that way. He'll get an idea of how things should be, and if there's a change to that... he gets uncomfortable with it. But,” she turned to face Jean once more, “with time, he learns. The more important to him it is, the longer it takes. But it does happen.”

Jean's eyes darted to Signore Bodt as they reached the corner adjacent to his. The man's expression was pinched.

“Please understand,” Danielle said, “his family is very important to him.”

Jean cleared his throat. He tried to think of something to say as they strolled by several more displays, but he ended up with a simple, “Of course.”

Still, Danielle smiled. Taking a few strides forward, her gaze softened as she called out, “Giulio, cosa c'e'?”

Signore Bodt's posture stiffened. Although he pivoted to answer Danielle, he halted altogether when his eyes landed on Jean.

Staying a few steps back, Jean remained quiet as he kept eye contact with Marco's father. The man's eyes swarmed with emotion. His gaze flicked between Danielle and Jean, lips parting and closing and parting again, before he finally spoke.

“'Casa del Tesoro'... would be a good name.”

The statement came out of the blue; both Danielle and Jean needed a moment to process it, during which Marco's father started backing toward the exit.

Soon, Danielle was grinning widely. “Amore!” she hailed as she took quick steps to keep stride with her husband. She looped her arm through his, now, and leaned over to murmur happily in his ear.

Jean was too far away to hear their exchange at that point, but Signore Bodt's words were enough to put a small smile on his face. The only way this could better would be if—

“Principe!”

Jean snapped his head to beam at Marco, and his breath caught in his throat. _Hot_ damn.

Marco shouldered his way through a clump of the exhibition's guests, bringing more and more of himself into view. And, fuck, Jean was a fan of the view. Marco was wearing the same black pants and white dress shirt required by Tonino's, but he'd ditched the waistcoat for a navy blue blazer, its sleeves turned up to show off his strong forearms. He'd also gone and slicked his hair into a dashing side part. Basically, Jean wasn't sure if he wanted to admire or wreck that neat hairdo. He still hadn't decided when Marco at last stood before him, a god in white and black and blue shining his smile at Jean.

“”Y-you, uh.” Jean swallowed. “You look incredible.”

Marco bit his lip, still glowing. “Grazie. You look... very handsome, too,” he answered. His brown eyes took in Jean's stark, sharp attire, but after a few prolonged moments of staring, Jean felt himself smirk. Marco's gaze seemed to look more at the tightly clinging contours of his shirt than the cloth itself.

“Hey, you ready to look at some other fine works of art?” he sassed.

Marco laughed even as he put his hands over his face, spinning and walking away from Jean in mock disgust.

The two of them started back at the beginning of the exhibition, strolling through leisurely as other guests came and went. Jean listened intently as Marco praised the beautiful results of everyone's work. However, as they made their way to the room where they'd reunited, Jean found he couldn't stop thinking about Signore Bodt's words. He ended up describing the short exchange to Marco, grinning when his boyfriend's eyes lit up hopefully.

“My father said that to you?”

“Yeah. We just walked up to him, and that's the first thing out of his mouth. Well... he seemed like he was thinking pretty hard when we came by. He was looking a lot at this one spot—” And Jean cut himself off, pointing out where he meant. “You know, I didn't see what was over there,” he finished thoughtfully.

Marco tilted his head and made a beeline for the collage in that area.

As they neared the work of art, Jean and Marco started to distinguish the separate squares making up the whole collage as photos. Each one had been edited, desaturated or warmed in hue like they'd been run through some kind of Instagram filter, but otherwise the display was like a spread of a typical scrap book. Jean checked the label beside the work to see if he could find out more.

**Sasha Braus et al.  
** _Guess Who Won the Photo Contest_ _  
_Digital Photography

Letting out an amused snort of air, Jean went back to looking through the photos. Here and there were snapshots of life around campus, as far as he could tell: in one, Connie grated parmesan cheese while Eren mixed something in a silver bowl; in the next, Ymir glanced over her shoulder, paused in the middle of drawing a landscape. A small amount of other photos depicted little glimpses of Cortona and its architecture. However, a majority of the pictures were all, more or less, incredibly creepy shots taken of Marco and himself. Jean recognized a few scenes from when they'd been spending time together in a group. Others, though, surprised him; how had Sasha taken these? One showed Jean trying on a leather jacket while Marco flipped out the collar; then, there was Marco catching a drip from Jean's cone of gelato; another, of Marco sitting in his family's car while Jean leaned in through the open window and grinned.

Jean liked the photos, of course; he looked happy in them, and Marco was radiant. When he thought about Marco's father, though, he felt he could maybe understand what was going through Signore Bodt's mind as he viewed the most centrally-placed pictures.

These three went together in a sequence. There wasn't much to them. The photos just captured Jean and Marco sitting on a bench—he was pretty sure it was one from the patio by Tonino's, with the beautiful view—as Jean brushed a lock of hair away from Marco's face.

Jean knew that sometimes, his boyfriend wasn't the first one to talk about himself; he'd hold in feelings if he thought things were better that way. In this photo, though, Marco's face was an open book. And Jean wasn't being prideful, but he'd be damned if he'd seen anyone else get Marco gazing at them with quite that mix of joy and contentment.

“...Jean,” Marco eventually broke their silence, a tender twist in his voice. “These are wonderful!” After Jean smiled back at him, he continued more pensively, “I am not sure how the pictures were taken, though.”

“Me neither. How about we pay Sasha a visit, hm?”

It didn't take long for the two to find Sasha; she was particularly boisterous tonight, her voice carrying well as she talked with Connie. They confronted her right when she took a bite of a mini-eclair, one of several that she'd heaped onto her small plate from the buffet.

“Oh, hi guys!” she cheered. When Jean stared at her tensely, though, she eventually swallowed and hazarded, “How's it going?”

“When did you take all those photos?”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, before realization hit. She cackled. “Oh my god, don't worry about that. Let's say I had some help. And hey, I've got way more important questions than that, liiike, are you two going to Reiner's party on Saturday?”

Jean scowled. “Wait, no, you're telling me whether or not you're stalking m—”

“It was a group effort, okay?” Connie interrupted. “Now, are you guys going to the party? It's gonna be his birthday, and kind of an 'It's Our Last Night Before We Fly Home' thing.”

Jean frowned. “Eh, I don't think I'm up for it,” he drawled.

“What? But Jeaaan,” Sasha whined.

“I don't feel like it!” he snapped back.

Marco looked at him, touching his side gently. “Jean, can we talk for a moment?”

Jean regarded him before nodding. He and Marco stepped away from Connie and Sasha, at which point Marco fixed him with a probing stare. “Are you so sure you don't want to go?”

Jean grumbled inaudibly for a bit. “Look, just, we could spend it by ourselves doing something better. I mean... It'll be our last night to be together for a while and,” Jean's volume lowered to a whisper, “I don't know if I'll feel much like celebrating.”

Hearing Jean explain himself, Marco's face relaxed into a sweet smile. “Principe,” he murmured, “we will have plenty of time to be together, after that night.” His look turned playful. “I think a party is perfect. We can celebrate our summer together.”

Jean met Marco's grinning, warm expression, giving in at last with an exhale. “Yeah, okay.” He yelled back toward Connie and Sasha, “Nevermind, we'll be at the party thing!”

“Yes!” Connie fist-pumped.

“Oh,” Sasha shouted back, “by the way, it's a toga party! So you gotta come dressed up right!”

Marco laughed, while Jean rolled his eyes. “ _Great_.”

–-

Before Jean knew it, Saturday night had snuck up on Cortona. Well, alright, that was a lie; the last few days all shone distinctly in his mind, but in a way they also blurred together into one pleasant, leisurely dream. Marco was doing an amazing job of soothing Jean's tension when it came to... Sunday, so much so that he was actually looking forward to the party in a few hours.

Well, he was, until he was dealt a jarring surprise.

Things started innocently enough: Jean had headed to the student dorms to get sheets to use as his toga, as he figured the owner of his hostel wouldn't just sit and watch him waltz out the door with the bedding stripped off of his own bed. Connie promised Jean he'd provide a spare set of sheets, so there Jean was, waiting in his friend's room as Sasha helped wrap and belt Connie's outfit in place.

“Aaaand... I think we're good,” Sasha breathed, tying a knot from the sheet corners that met on Connie's shoulder. “Now it's your turn, right, Jean?”

“Yeah. So where's my toga?”

Sasha started walking toward the dorm's hallway. “We were gonna use a set from the cabinet down here, it's near the common room. You can come with me to get them if you want.”

Jean shrugged and followed her out, Connie trailing along behind him and holding up the side of his toga like he was scared it would come loose.

Sasha reached the tall wooden wardrobe first. Swinging the doors open, her face morphed from puzzled to thrilled in a matter of seconds.

“...Why do you have that look on your face?” Jean asked.

Connie jogged to look in the cabinet too, and broke into an excited, manic grin. “Ooooh, man, this couldn't be better even if we'd planned it.”

“Planned what?!” Jean shouted, coming up to look inside for himself.

“Sorry, man,” Connie lilted as Jean stared in anguish at the wardrobe's contents. “I guess all the normal sheets got nabbed already.”

Jean tried to tear his eyes away from the last set left sitting on the shelf before him, but couldn't. “Then I just won't go in a toga,” he gritted out.

“But Jean, you have to! You totally can't come if you're going to be the only one not in costume. Like, Reiner might legitimately, drunkenly kick you out.”

Jean looked between Sasha and Connie, panic-stricken.

“ _Do it for Marco_ ,” Connie urged.

Jean whimpered.

–-

Marco showed up at the party about ten minutes in; Jean spotted him in his own pale blue sheets, and forgot momentarily about his own predicament as he almost drooled over the way the toga's drape revealed one side of his toned, solid chest and shoulder. He watched as Marco headed first to the main group of students, gathered together in a happily dancing mob, and gestured something that probably had to do with asking where Jean was.

Whoever answered Marco pointed him in the right direction, to where Jean brooded off to the side of the festivities, gazing sullenly out at the view.

Yeah, the view was pretty incredible. Reiner had decided to hold this party at a spot not far from Marco's lookout at the top of Cortona. It was a little lower down, but the wide open space afforded one hell of a vision of the countryside at night. This was all possible because the birthday boy was apparently buddy-buddy with some of the waiters from Tonino's, and convinced them to help out. Jean had observed while Franz, Hannah, Thomas, and a few other locals their age unpacked case after case of beer, and as they rigged up speakers and floodlights from their cars.

Jean was in the shade of the lights, though, hiding away and cursing his luck when Marco approached him with a small smile.

“Why aren't you dancing?” Marco queried as his fingers sought the edge of Jean's silhouette.

“...Dancing's overrated.”

Marco chuckled. “Everyone else is enjoying it, Principe.”

Jean gripped the edge of his makeshift toga, and said, voice strained, “I'm gonna look really dumb.”

“That doesn't matter,” Marco reasoned, “I am sure you'll look fi—”

Jean's intense gaze snapped to Marco, and with a sudden desire to prove his point, he tugged Marco back toward the range of the floodlights.

“...See?” he grunted.

“Um,” Marco said, eyes wide as they took in Jean's toga. “I... You...” Finally, a small chuckle slipped out. “It is a little silly,” he squeaked, holding in even more laughter.

The final set of spare sheets that had been in the wardrobe were, for one reason or another, absolutely _covered_ in an ornate floral motif, set on a light pink background. It wouldn't normally bother Jean, except this was his last full night with Marco before he flew back, and now one of Marco's clearest memories would be of Jean looking like a total idiot.

Jean growled and stalked back to the clearing's edge, Marco following him closely.

“You really do not like it that much, Jean?” he asked with concern. “I will switch with you, if you want.”

In a better mood, Jean probably would have jumped just at the chance to see Marco slip out of his sheet into whatever scant underwear he had on beneath it. Right now, though, he was in a full-on sulk.

“Hmm...” Marco considered Jean's silence. “Then hold on, Principe, I will be right back.”

Jean brought his eyes up to look at Marco's bashful grin, before his boyfriend scampered away toward the party's heart.

Jean spent a few more minutes staring mournfully out at the twinkling lightscape beyond the hillside. Then, Sasha's voice called out to him, “Jean, get your ass over here!”

“ _No way!_ ” he yelled back. “You're just going to betray my trust again!”

“Come on! Marco told me to get you,” she finished as she bridged the distance between them. “You really gotta come see him. I helped.”

Jean leveled her with a disturbed glare. “'Helped' with what?”

“Just come see,” she giggled.

Reluctantly, Jean stood and followed Sasha around the edge of the dancers, to where Marco waited in the partial shade.

“Well, Principe? We match now.”

Jean... was absolutely dumbfounded. Marco had gone and tucked poppies, daisies—whatever wildflowers he and Sasha could get their hands on—into his hair and into the folds of his sheet, to the point where any small movement made petals flutter to the ground. He grinned jovially at Jean, apparently greatly satisfied with his genius solution.

Jean was stunned for a few moments longer, before he put both hands over his face, feeling his cheeks and ears burn. He wasn't embarrassed, he just... Marco looked _so goddamn cute..._

“ _Fuck,_ ” he finally groaned, “just come and dance with me, you dork.” He kept his eyes down as he stomped back into the pool of light. Marco followed him with a cheer.

At first, Jean was still too tightly-wound to really get into any sort of rhythm with Marco or the idiots flailing around them. When Marco started pulling out every cheesy, dated dance move there was, though, Jean couldn't keep himself from cracking up and mimicking Marco as they “mowed the lawn” or “screwed in the lightbulb” together. Marco kept up the unrepentant nerdiness song after song, until everyone had joined in with them; the clearing formed into one big circle, with a few people jumping into the middle and breaking into strange, funky, and altogether ridiculous moves.

Marco pulled Jean into the center of the circle with him when it felt right, both of them getting a few woops and laughs for their enthusiasm and flowers. Marco didn't lead them in any particular dance, though. He just smiled and swung their hands around, dazing his boyfriend with a sunny smile. Jean shook his head fondly and decided to at least bring out the one routine he knew sort of well.

He spread his and Marco's arms wide apart, hands still linked together, then led Marco into a kind of cross-step that brought them together and apart, one, two, three four times. Marco fell into the moves easily. Next, Jean lifted their arms up high, moved their hands so that each of them had a set of wrists behind his head, and then unlinked their left hands so that they could slide out into an exaggerated, jazz-hand-framed pose.

Although everyone around them started cheering, Jean wasn't done; he tugged Marco back to him, holding him close to his chest, before spinning him back out as a final flourish.

Marco laughed as he leaned into the final sweep. His chest rose and fell from their exertion, flower petals slipping from his hair into his flushed face, and the thick band of stars glinted in the shine of his eyes.

Jean scrambled to breathe right.

Marco looked at him funny, then, and led him back out of the ring of dancers to the edge of the lights' illumination. Once they'd made it, he asked, “Principe, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jean wheezed, a grin stretched across his lips. “Yeah, I just—I love you,” he said simply.

Marco's lips twitched into an answering smile, and he let his head fall to the side as he gazed adoringly at Jean. “Me too, Principe.”

Jean brought his head forward with a self-assured droop to his lids. Marco met him halfway, and their curved lips melded together warmly.

A few long, hot minutes passed by there in the shade, before the background music was turned down and Jean and Marco parted breathlessly. They sat up to look at the now still members of the party.

Reiner stood in the middle of the crowd. His words rumbled out loudly, as he lifted a beer up high and proposed a toast. “To another year with amazing friends,” he boomed, “and to one fucking awesome summer!”

He got a joyous roar in response, Jean and Marco included, before everyone held their drinks aloft and chugged.

“Seriously, you guys,” Reiner went on once the hollers had died down, “once we get back stateside, I still wanna hear from all of you! Let's keep this going once we get home!”

His words were again met with cheers—although this time, Jean didn't join in. All Marco had to do was look at him curiously.

Jean sighed. “I finally managed to forget about tomorrow and have a good time,” he griped. “Now I just remembered how much I don't want to go.”

Marco considered Jean evenly, before he said, “I'm glad you have to go.”

A jolt passed through Jean's body. “ _What?_ ”

“Shhh, shhh, calmati, Tesoro.” Marco pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I mean, I am not glad we have to be apart. But I do know that, even though I am happier than I have ever been right now, the day you come back will be even better.” Marco pulled Jean up, so they were back to standing across from each other, then linked his arms around Jean's neck. They were close enough to brush their lips together, which Marco proceeded to do without hesitation. It didn't take long for him to turn Jean back into a happy, man-shaped jelly.

“The day you come back to Cortona,” Marco at last confided against Jean's lips, “will be the best day of my life. Sometimes I get so excited thinking about that day that I cannot sleep, I start shaking. Things will be so _good_.”

Jean held Marco's gaze in awe. Finally, he shivered and muttered, “You're right. I'm... I'm really excited too.” Jean let out a breath, kissed Marco again just because he could, and then put on his most winning grin. “Hey, got any more awesome dances to teach me?”

Marco smiled broadly, taking Jean once more back to the crowd of partygoers.

–-

The celebration didn't go until dawn, but it was a close thing. Instead, the students all made their way back down to the dorm to pass out, knowing they'd be loading onto a charter bus and heading to the airport by midday.

For Jean and Marco, it was a little different. They split off at the dorms, walking another five minutes to Marco's house. Slipping up to Marco's room and under the covers of his bed was a blessed relief.

The next morning was odd, as, by the time both he and Marco awoke, the American students had all left town. Things felt a little eerie as they walked through the main street despite the fact that there wasn't a very visible difference in the crowd.

To be honest, Jean wasn't one to dwell on goodbyes. That was why he parted ways with most of the students by saying “see you later” or “let's hang out soon.” In the same way, he didn't really think much about the last day he spent that August in Cortona. It was quiet, and with Marco, and that was all that was really important.

They'd been planning for weeks now about how to deal with the upcoming separation. Their measures involved things like swapping skype usernames, setting Marco up on Facebook and WhatsApp, exchanging about five shirts and jackets each, and, in a move they both hoped wasn't _too_ weird, Jean had packed one of Marco's pillowcases in his bags, and planned to send one back to Marco as soon as he got home.

This time, Marco drove Jean down to personally see him off at Camucia's train station. And even though Jean didn't want to drag this out as a farewell, he did have a little something he'd thought out beforehand.

“Hey, Marco,” he started as they waited together on the station platform.

“Hm?” Marco raised one eyebrow, then decided to peck Jean's cheek on the spur of the moment.

Jean grinned, and took Marco's hand in his so he could trace the tiny image of the sunflower in his ring. “You know, there's something I never did say back to you.”

Marco replied almost dreamily, “And what is that?”

After pressing a soft, thorough kiss to Marco's smiling lips, Jean played the line he'd been practicing in the mirror for an embarrassing amount of time now:

“Voglio passare il resto della mia vita con te.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Feel like taking a pit stop and telling me about your favorite scene from the fic? Haha, or you could come back to this if you actually feel like it... c:


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> II. with barely a word in common  
> you taught me ‘benvenuto’;  
> and for the first time in years  
> I felt at home.  
> —"Learning Italian" by [E.T.](http://fireandragonstone.tumblr.com/post/81518292828)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I added two chapters with this update, so please make sure you checked the one before this! 
> 
> 2\. So, uh, from the start this story was about Jean's time in Italy, and not other events. Therefore, I hope this doesn't seem abrupt, and that it feels right.
> 
> 3\. Thank you so, so much for reading~ Hope you enjoy some sappy dorks! ;D

“...Marco...”

Sunlight drifted through the curtains, falling across a messy bed.

“Marco... _Amore_ ,” came the soft murmur.

The freckled man mumbled something in his sleep, shifting a little.

“Amore mio,” Jean hummed into the crown of Marco's sleek, dark hair. He had to admit, he loved the days he woke up before his lover. It gave him the chance to gaze down into his arms and admire Marco's warm, tan skin against the white of their sunlit sheets; to place light, careful kisses to the center of Marco's brow and to the tips of his fingers.

“Marco,” he spoke quietly against soft, barely parted lips.

“Mm...” The other pressed forward, practically out of instinct, to follow the feeling of Jean's lips against his.

Better than all the things Jean just listed, though, was this moment: when Marco blinked his gorgeous brown eyes open, sending a pleasant wave through Jean, like when they had first met.

“Buongiorno,” Jean purred. He grinned when Marco nudged their noses together in some attempt to quiet Jean.

“Principe... Dormiamo...” _Let's sleep_ , he requested faintly.

“Non oggi,” Jean replied with a chuckle. _Not today._

Marco blinked a few times, sleep-addled mind unwilling to process the statement.

Jean smiled and reminded his dearest, “La riunione?” _The reunion?_

At that, Marco's eyes focused gradually. “Si, si.” He yawned and stretched a little, still in Jean's grasp. “Quando saranno qui?” _When will they be here_?

Jean glanced to the clock on their bedside table. “Un'ora.”

Marco sighed, but when Jean squeezed him close affectionately, he had to laugh softly. “Okay, okay—let's go,” he said a little jokingly.

The two moved through their morning routine—Jean taking his time to actually peal himself away from the heat of the bed and Marco's body, and Marco almost melting as Jean absentmindedly played with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror—before traipsing downstairs to the Casa's kitchen. Jean grinned appreciatively at the table where his computer rested, noticing that Marco had taken the time to organize his sprawling drafts into neat piles when Jean was too tired to do it himself.

Jean sat down to continue typing as Marco opened the pantry.

“Caffe?” he called to Jean.

Jean turned and nodded, before the two fell back into their it-isn't-past-ten-yet silence. Slowly, though, Marco started humming as he moved around the kitchen. Jean smiled when he recognized the song, laughing at it's relevance as he considered the date. _So it's really been five years?_ he mused.

After a long, quiet spell, Jean and Marco eventually looked up at the buzz of their doorbell, knowing they needed to go greet their guests. First, though, Jean traced one last shape against the inside of Marco's palm. He loved that it tickled, and that it made Marco snicker playfully.

They swung the entrance open. “Hello! It's so great to see you again!” Marco ushered their friends inside. “How was your flight?”

“Not too bad, really!” Sasha answered. Jean took her suitcase from her, even though she pouted at it. She then took turns hugging and kissing her old friends.

“You should see some of the coloring pages we finished,” Connie added as he came in and set his own bag down. He received the same greeting from Marco, but Jean exchanged a rather elaborate handshake with him at his turn.

“We would love to see them when we get back, but before that,” Marco explained apologetically, “we hoped we could put you to work for a bit. Just, if you could watch the reception counter while we ran an errand? It would not be too long, but we do need it before all the others arrive this afternoon.”

“Okay...?” Sasha replied at length. “But why didn't you do it earlier?”

“We may have woken up a little late,” Marco confessed. “Or, I did.”

“Psh, okay,” she laughed. As Jean and Marco moved out the doorway and onto their vespa, however, she came to shout accusingly, “What about you, Jean? Not even going to speak to us now that we're here?”

Jean looked over his shoulder at her, then at Marco, who held his middle tightly and matched his curious grin. Jean revved the engine as he cleared his throat. Then, he turned back to Sasha and Connie, calling out together with Marco before they drove down the cobblestone street...

“Benvenuto a Cortona!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this~ Feel free to comment here, or to send me a message right over [here](http://angels-in-your-angles.tumblr.com) telling me what you thought.
> 
> I know it's been cheesy, but maybe it was fun, too!


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